I Still Have More to Say: A Life In Verse

My Poems I didn’t know if I would read my poems, Written so many years ago, Each one a tiny slice of me revealed. I was afraid they were too personal, Too unimportant, too boring. But my friends liked them, They supported me. I read four. No one else has ever heard my poems Or encouraged me to write. Shall I begin to write again? And spend the cold, wet winter months Probing for deeper feelings? Rousting out secrets hidden from analysis. What will I find by searching my soul? Answers? Or just more questions? Or maybe a spirit needing sunlight and words, Dreaming about a world without pain, And a life without anger.