My Scrapbook
By Linda A. Copp

Looking at my scrapbook,
The pictures bowed and bent.
Some of them a little worn,
faded, blurred In print.

The yellow pages linger,
the portraits often glaze
Like the heat upon a hot topped street
in the mid-noon Summer haze.

And bottles of forgotten brews
are opened, left and flat.
Can't remember my parakeet,
just some snatches, this and that.

Halloweens are scary,
mine happened all the time.
And birthdays brought but more regrets,
more years, more things not mine.

Wolves were always outside,
witches were within.

And things I couldn't understand
happened over and over again.

Looking at my scrapbook
the tears are in my eyes.
The pictures aren't that pretty
they're ugly! Bold in size.

Indeed, there weren't many rainbows
or sunny days back then.
But, still and all it is my life,
what is and what has been.

What has brought me here, today
what made me,  made me,  Me
Whatever, indeed I have become,
yes, whatever that may Be!

   By Linda A. Copp
©January 15, 1972