I wanted to know how you keep your past,
You say you worded it in a special book,
That every word, a fragment of your heart
That broke the day you were forsook.

You also poured your history into a glass,
And from the same, you painted a brook,
You called it 'the Brook of a painful past',
One that seems to flow backwards too.

You also crafted a golden little flower,
You say it reminds you of your childhood,
Memories of when your life was better,
When chaos was out of the neighborhood.

You painted and inked, with all your tears
Filled with regrets and wishes you have,
You turned pain into artistic souvenirs,
Which is how you kept your past.

© J. Phillipi