I have a little wooden box,
that sits upon my dresser.
I gaze into its depths every day or so.
I do not dare reach into it,
for I know the tale it told.
This little wooden box,
holds my past in its grasps.
I know what one may think,
get rid of it you freak.
But you see,
this little wooden box,
holds my past but my relief.
For if my strength grows old,
it offers a relief.
This little wooden box,
has a little red bow.
I placed this here, you see
to make it seem less bold.
I know what one may wonder,
how does it do that so.
Well you see when I look upon that bow,
I know, for sure.
It's insides remain unknown.
This little wooden box
was sought upon today. 
So I moved it out of its,
or my,
harms way.
My little wooden box remains in my drawer,
within arms reach,
if my strength becomes sore