Sealed away under my bed,
Sits a box full of unsent thoughts.
Some of them are beautiful.
Some of them hurt to read.
But all of them are me,
and all of them I'll keep.
Each one is dated and signed in pen.
Folded into envelopes that are sealed with stickers.
A shoebox covers them,
As well as the tear soaked papers.
I wrap the box tight with tape and ribbon,
To hold every thought in a prison.
Here is one, if you care to listen.
To quote myself,
"Can you qualify rambling that rarely rhymes as beautiful?"
That one sits underneath anxieties,
Just above regrets.
But I still keep it around,
Unsent and unwanted.
I'll keep it with me till I lose the box.
A memory of who I used to be.
I've never sent them to you.
She's gotta wait a bit before she needs them.
But every once in a while,
She opens the box beneath her bed.
She looks at the letters,
Touching the dried ink, examining the stains.
And yet she'll pack them away again.
She'll seal them for later.
These letters I write are for her and for me,
And these letters I shall keep.