How It Used To Be
Today I stayed inside my room
And rested from a trip
Then fell a solitary gloom.
I tried to get a grip
By reading thoughts from long ago
Of hectic times embraced with woe.
Some scraps were yellow, some were stained
Quite odd in shape and size
Some faded, as if it had it rained,
Some truths were there, some lies.
I felt the love that trickled through
Those hasty, scribbled lines,
Love offered, hoping it was true,
Though ominous all signs.
I found a poem that tried to grow
From scrawled, unruly thoughts,
Of pinkest shells with subtle glow,
Yet thrown aside, for nought.
How precious were those days of old
Though pain my daily friend,
How many tears on leaves of gold
Were quelled to heal and mend?
Today my life is a neat box,
I write with strong, firm hand.
My poems now resemble rocks
That rise from smoothest sand.
But when I see my scraps of old
Written with shaky pen,
Their tearful tales of anguish hold
My heart and soul again.
