Sometimes I wrote a poem that was clearly not meant for me at the time–it was meant for me now. I supposed, at the time it was written, that it was wishful thinking instead of prophetic, but I’ll probably never really know.
This poem is about stepping out from the ruins of my wall and building a new and better life without it.
“These Are the Old Ways. You Will Not See Them Again”
Gone were the heady days of innocence
When the only care we had was who was out to get us.
Back then the rules of life were simple:
Don’t get caught alone.
Don’t fight back
Don’t show them you care.
Don’t feel anything.
But now those days are gone.
Now we actually feel.
When did that start to happen?
And what do we do with the runaway emotions?
Everyone can see we care now,
And we hate being alone.
When did love become a boon, not a hindrance?
When did I start wanting to be loved?
Will you love me, too?
Happiness is a daily occurrence now.
And dread is all but a thing of the past.
A new economy has been set in motion—
One where I feel like giving as much as getting.
And suddenly I have so much to give.
But I do wonder: who’s going to give back?
A lot of my pain, I have let go.
And I find there is room to add pleasure.
It’s intoxicating.
We were warned about the bait and switch.
When does the other shoe fall?
But alas, I think the new regime has risen,
And the ashes of the old have been swept aside
To only appear occasionally in museums,
Lest we forget.
But maybe we should.
Children grow up.
They are supposed to let go of the childish.
Gone were the horrible days of my self-imprisonment
When I believed strongly that all I needed was to hide.
Back then the rules were simple:
Pain leads to fear which leads to self-destruction.
But old habits die hard and vigilance slips.
Have I fallen enough to know how to get back up?
Thank you.