Boxes, scribbles and memories.

As I start a whole new positive chapter in my life, it’s transition has unearthed loads of memories, good and bad. I guess I’m in a better place to cope with them all now, the stuff I’d hid away, photos, paintings and scribbles. Here’s one, written by an old me, one I can remember, but in a detached way, like a young person I may had worked with and helped. It’s a bit simplistic, I wrote it in 2000, I didn’t write again until 2012 despite writing poetry since I was a child.

*

I still feel you in the wind,

as you rustle through the leaves.

I can smell you in the rain

and hear you whisper through the trees.

*

I cry out and try to touch you

but there’s nothing tangible to hold.

Your physical in existence,

just leaves me feeling cold.

*

I feel you deep inside me,

united in my soul.

But with this space beside me,

somehow I don’t feel whole.

*

I try to block out painful memories

some too hard to bare.

I try to go on with my life,

but can’t let anyone near.

*

I just shut myself inside,

and wander from day to day.

I wish I could understand why you did this.

I wish you hadn’t made me feel this way.

*

When I started writing again, I tried to bring about closure, they best way I could in Broken Memory.

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