I dug out some of my old work
and it was like digging out a grave.
The notebooks and the pages which carry
my soul and everything I was and believed
I would be screamed out to me.
Blowing the dust of this ancient version of my expression
made me realize I might just have to take
ten steps back to realize where should I go forward.
It made me feel so very old.
All those poems and sketches on the side of the pages
told me I used to be a kid with a dream
and it came like a shock to me.
For a change my work screamed out my name.
It wasn’t dedicated to any him,
I wasn’t wasting graphite writing about any them.
I used to give myself enough importance to write about me.
I wore out my knees and my joints running away from the past.
Maybe I need to revisit it to find some answers.