I keep my old poems

In a drawer next to my bed

Filed away for more than a decade

Destined to never be read

The paper’s creased

Crumpled and torn

Filled with words of love

Rage, regret and scorn

The angst and anguish

Of a teenage mind

Writing the only escape

It could ever find

And I sit here now

Reading my poems from what I thought was my past

The ink is faded, smudged and blurred

But every line, every word

Is as real today as it ever was

Each crease, crumple and tear

Is a scar I’ll always bear

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