My hand, it grasps,
a withered pen,
dry and old,
yet perfect all the same

My pen, it dances,
across the milky paper,
smooth and neat,
yet messy all the same

My paper, it shouts,
words, phrases, stories,
depressing and gloomy,
yet cheerful all the same

Sometimes,
we must let go
of the things we love

The things that brought us happiness,
and memorable memories,
must soon pack up and leave

Whether it be
because we grew too old,
or we grew too weak

We have to let go of them,
because they will injure us
if we do not

They will weigh us down,
like rocks in a backpack,
until we are on our knees

But we refuse to let them go,
to throw the backpack off,
and to finally breathe

Until we collapse

We cry,
shake,
scream

As we watch our memories,
childhood,
and our happiness,
turn into nothing
but a mere dream

"It's hard to write about life when you've never lived."