I sit her quietly by the beach, waves gently lapping,
No one here but me, and a few seagulls talking away.
Reflecting on past, not glorious, not particularly bold,
Especially that childhood, I choose to forget it,
It’s a boring story I say, what I really mean is its cold.
You never disrespect your parents, speak ill of the dead,
If you have nothing nice to say then say nothing;
So I stay silent, it was boring and nothing special is what I say,
Not cold and lonely, detached and distant,
No one wants to hear a story like that, not people who listen for free anyway.
You tell stories for laughs, you tell stories where you are the hero,
You recount the glories, however small, a little fib here just for effect,
Everyone knows, no one cares, you get some adulation, a little head swell,
Usually I go for laughs, like everyone, the same old stories,
The rare days when I can brave an audience at all that is.
Mostly, I like the quiet, the company of those that know,
People who never ask, and they don’t mind when it shows,
We focus on the future, not the past, to them I am young,
If you know me, I am three, perhaps four, definitely no more.
I was born with pain in place, wounds already scarred.
It is easier this way I realised, easier to be pretend you are new,
Like the self help guru proclaims, act as if it is true to make it so,
Everyday, I give that a little chant, and pretend,
It was a few years ago, It is not real yet, I’ll try some more today,
I admit, I realise, my past, it wont go away.