Sometimes things are just kept on our memories.
Not for the bad, not for the good.
Just memories, sitting there as part of our story.
I see my parts, fragments of a past that was lived by me and is there like a background music on my memories, but they don't haunt me. They don't hurt me. They are just there like pictures hanging in a wall for me to see.
They are my gallery of memories.
I don't love or hate them. They don't hurt me anymore.
They were already dealt with.
From my childhood to my youth I suffered with them. Very much.
The tears I've shed had served the purpose of washing the pain.
What is left is the experience of those memories that can not be rejected but whose fingerprints are faded with time transforming itself in a soft watercolor rainbow.
My soft watercolor printed memories are hanging there, on my mind gallery.
- Author: Malu (Pseudonym) ( Offline)
- Published: September 22nd, 2017 08:24
- Comment from author about the poem: I'm happy to say that revisiting my past I found that the memories don't hurt. I can open myself without restriction because I know they are just memories.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 34
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