I long to weave my thinking into phrases,
before the account of nostalgic moments ceases.
I wish to pen every moment, each picture that I've beheld
and I want to word all of the yearnings withheld.

what is this madness, this endless chase?
to record on a thin sheet all that took place.
Happenings and incidents I try to compile,
is this meaningful or just futile?

For sometimes it feels they'll crawl out of me
and without a glance back, run free.
and I'd not have the strength to stand,
on my wobbling legs and stretch my hand.

I don't know if this feeling's a little gray
I know somethings that have to stay
will not require me to hold tight
yet losing them builds a fright