this little book

I had this little book years ago.
Just a little book of blank pages.
I fancied myself a poet.
Every little thought.
Every little slight.
The book was my outlet.

As I grew older, I set it aside.
There was no time for silly books.
No time for childish poems.
No outlet for those thoughts.
It sat in a drawer,
Hidden by socks, forgotten.

I found that book one day.
Last year, maybe the one before.
Cleaning out the sock drawer.
I flipped the pages.
Such a silly child, with silly words.
I put it in the shredder, page by page.

Now I long for that book.
I want to read those silly words.
My childhood thoughts and hurtful slights.
I want to add to that book.
My thoughts and slights.
My silly words.