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8/14/17
There are things we have lost, buried in old memories.
Things we forget, Hidden, begging "please remember me."
There are things we push away, repress.
Things we fold away to save us from distress.
Things we shove in boxes, lock away in cellars.
Things we hide so far away, unreadable, even by a fortune teller.
Things we wish for no one else to ever see.
Things we lock in treasure chests and throw away the key.
Things we'd prefer to be found.
Things we keep buried deep, deep under the ground.
All these things we've lost, all these things we've found.
All these things we hate about ourselves, safe and sound
YOU ARE READING
every rosebush has its thorns
Poetrymy life, told through a series of poems, a cautionary tale with a happy ending
