Write A Letter

If I were to write a letter to myself, I wonder what I would say
For there is much to discuss, to reflect, to realize, and to let go of
So many questions to answer, so many answers without reason
Faces and places that need to be transferred from my memory
Into diction, that I could come to grips with, and understand
The reality of what has happened, the consequences of my life
Where I have gone to, what I have done, whom I have met
Decisions I have made, and any kind of difference I have ensured

How complex this be, when an ocean of ideas rush eagerly at me 
Like a furious tsunami, frivolous of the damage that it shall cause
As each idea attempts to let itself free from this dark bank of memory
Where so much has been boxed in the hope of blanket forgetfulness
Sad tales of loves lost and lost love, happy smiles of joyful days
Angry thoughts like violent demons, killing to expose themselves free
Away past the gentle and compassionate ideas of love and peace
Where I have tried to be, as I matured, or, at least I thought so

I am sorry, I think I would say, to myself, I am truly sorry. Yes, I would
For my arrogance, my ultimate stupidity in believing that I was right
When I knew so little, had seen places so few, and knew not real love
In its truest form, the unconditional kind, the all-encompassing one
I learnt this as a parent, yes, only then, to love completely and utterly
For my reward is to see her thrive in health and happiness, nothing more
Because in return I have been loved like no other has ever loved me
Regardless of the growing pains a young daughter inflicts on a father

Oh, my mind wonders from pillar to post, like an ant amongst its army
Weaving and swerving and climbing over each other seemingly aimlessly
The more I think of the letter, the more emotions show their heads
Some laughing, some smiling, some crying, and some cursing loudly
Perhaps it would be safer to close the vault doors and leave them there
I don’t know, perhaps it would be.  But where would the fun be in that
If, after all of these years, I am afraid of myself, of my own thoughts
Then could there be any purpose at all, when there is life to live

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