August 2005

I haven’t got too many things to say
These words that come from me aren’t my own
I borrow them to try and feel
The emptiness you left behind in me

We ran and danced and sang and played
All day, we ate and laughed together
I know the past, described in words
But I don’t know how to show it to you

Hm. Reading through my poetry from various ages — now, and from six years ago, for instance — I seem to alternate between describing experiences and providing warnings about experiences not worth having, as though I were some kind “life critic.” That’s the impression I get from my poetry, anyway. :P