The past is a renewable resource,

A chance to add to my short repertoire.

The timeline can show lessons in mem'ries,

and old, never-been-heard-before stories.

The past is my not-so-secret garden,

With not just a path that is well hardened,

But nostalig flowers from all fond years,

And a rusty fountain of half-dried tears.

The past is my loya, burry-lined muse:

A tool that's been abused and overused;

The dead flowers have nearly all been plucked,

And fountain colds spent, no longer have luck.

I just have to find a way to loosen my grasp,

And it's necessary to stop living in the past.

Only then could I see a bright future, because,

"The past is," can turn into "The past was."