The vivid imagination of a child came to me one night, and I found that I could see exactly what I saw when I was a little younger. When the innocence of childhood still held appeal and I could be amused with a little cardboard and a stick. When my friends were my life and my backyard was my world.

I feel like a mystery suspense cliff hanger in a series of books that is never finished. As of yet, I, of course, only fill a couple chapters, but sooner or later my book will be full and I will have to move on to another.

This poem is an attempt to explain my shy character and lack of courage, which inevitably led to this outpour of self-scrutiny. I inevitably found problems with myself which I feared were the basis of my "bad character."

I viewed myself as unapproachable and my self-confidence dropped considerably. But after reading the poem a few times I began to think that my "problems" were only self-viewed and could be accepted.

I sharpened a pencil for 5 minutes, just wondering why I was doing it, wondering why I needed to do it. I have since come to believe that all things have a mind, or at least a voice, kind of like some Asian originated religion. There has to be a reason for everything, I think.