Sentimental Fool

I have a separate luggage to drag out,

If I plan to go off on a one-way tour,

My diaries, slam books, paper cuttings.

I have boxes full of strange items,

Some held in memory, some discarded.

I was 12 years old,

When I had the initial urge,

To conceal, bury, cover.

I am living in a constant fear,

Of being shamed,

For believing that I own myself,

That I am in charge of myself,

My admiration for others,

My habit of offering space,

To people, I met during the early 21st century.

And it’s all crashing down on me,

A harsh reality,

That I’ve been a sentimental fool.


Written for The Daily Post prompt- Sentimental




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