Another from the rhyming years of youth.

Earlier this year I found a box of memorabilia. Within the container was a notebook of poetry written when I was a younger person. At that time I was under the unshakable impression that poetry had to rhyme. Ah youth.

I've shared a couple of those meanderings. Here is another.

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When will one be loved and not shoved
spurned turned away?
Will it be today
tomorrow
or the very next day?

To understand
to be understood.
If only I knew.
If only I could
I really would.

To care more than I should is my only crime
Repeating it over and over
time after time.

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Ah youth.