The Past’s an unforgiving dictionary,
Defining me by what I did and said.
Its purpose is to keep me stationary.
It paints me in what’s over, done and dead.
The past’s a lover who just won’t move on—
Telling me that her feelings mean I owe her,
Guilting me with a duty that’s long gone,
Blaming me because I dared to outgrow her.
Dressing me up in what no longer fits—
Humming me like an old familiar song—
Freezing my heart and licking it to bits—
Making me feel like growth and change are wrong—
My past defines me, on this one condition:
It cannot haunt me without my permission.
Copyright 2017 Matthew J Wells