History
Sometimes, I lose myself.
I forget my history.
But I am back
when I write poetry.
That forgotten piece of me
is wiped of dust and found again,
storing precious memories.
Like an old chest in the attic,
I ease my rusted hinges.
Stories live inside
the corners of my mind,
flying free like butterflies.
Now
I confront myself.
Share it all,
my spirit tells me.
I relive old memories.
The burdens become
victories.
I promise to myself
to brave the winding path
before me.
I cherish every breath,
and ground myself in strength.
My past
is now my power.
That hidden part of me
I treasure like a pearl,
my precious history.