I Still Have More to Say

My PoemsI didn’t know if I would read my poems Written so many years ago Each one a tiny slice of me revealed. I was afraid they were too personal Too unimportant too boring. But my friends liked them They supported me. I read four. No one else has ever heard my poems Or encouraged me to write. Shall I begin to write again?And spend the cold wet winter months Probing for deeper feelings? Rousting out secrets hidden from analysis. What will I find by searching my soul? Answers? Or just more questions? Or maybe a spirit needing sunlight and words Dreaming about a world without pain And a life without anger.