wildrose

I would be the last one wishing for my childhood days not to return Those days were used and misused like a scratch pad Few instances were written on those papers Few crumbled it....Few poked and scribbled I envied at the multicolored book lying beside My dad bought it for a price; because it was worth reading It was admired, taken care of and often appreciated Why shouldn’t it be? It boasted of its glittering pages I had ideas written on my pages, the very virgin ones Some poured out their feelings on me; evil and good But they tore me and I rested among the garbage Yeah.. Garbage is always discarded and never brought back