I looked at the box
Filled with things,
Not just mere things
Things that helped me
To make those memories.
Some still vivid in my mind
Some like a distant and faded dream
Each has its own story to tell
Stories built of emotions
Stories that were to be given away
To that little orphanage
With the noisy front door.
I wasn’t sure if they would like it,
These small bits of my life
Or was that the feeling
Of not wanting to part with what was mine?
A stubbornness, a selfishness,
To keep my possessions as mine alone.
But are my memories just objects that I keep as mine?
Then I realized,
That I was never giving away my memories
Because those were etched in my heart
For the time blissfully unknown.
I was giving away what helped me
Make those happy times
Something to reminiscence
On days of oblivious future.
So I walked away that day,
Knowing forever that
I left back a fortune
So that someday, someone can make memories
With these things of mine.
_________________
Don't we all feel some possesiveness towards a certain inanimate object?
No? Well, I don't mind being the lone wolf in that matter.
YOU ARE READING
My Thoughts in Verses
PoetryMy thoughts in verses is a bunch of poems that I have written at various stages of my life. Whether for completion or for leisure, all of it has a bit of my crude essence. *The picture on the cover does not belong to me. I do not take any credits.
