So honest, so direct,
so ambitiously penned,
so irrevocably bad.
I’ll find an old scrap of paper,
feel the wash of expired passion,
cringe at what I was trying to say,
and die a little inside.
There’s a place for all my young poetry,
there’s a basket I’ve labeled just so
for the words I fought for the right to express
that should’ve passed out of mind.
Yet sometimes I think of my numbered years
and whether they will bring enough growth
to keep me grimacing, enough to keep
me marching humbly on.