Kept in boxes for years,
With words so earnest, forthright, and naive,
Paper crinkled from tears,
Hardly able to recall how it was,
Or was it really you?
But if it wasn't then who are you now,
And will you someday be somebody new?
So you put it all back into the box,
Burn it in the fire,
If you can't replicate who you had been,
Then you are on that pyre,
Ash on your heart,
Spread there more than one time,
You keep on changing, yet you never do,
'Cause you keep feeding yourself the same line.