Scripts of Change

I found an old journal, my name curled and neat,

loops filled with childhood, each stroke bittersweet.

Now the letters are hurried, a chaotic affair,

scrawls of the present, a breath in the air.

Each line is a story, a slice of my time,

a race with my thoughts that now seldom rhyme.

I see how the ink flows, a river of pain,

and wonder if stillness will ever remain.