Sentimentalist Poem by Paul Reed

A pebble collected

A piece of paper, crumpled and torn

A broken toy

The tingle in your bones at an old tune;



I am a sentimentalist at heart

Although sentiment is thought to amount to nothing

Without it the world could not be kind

It would be a hard, ravaged place

With jagged edges to cut ourselves upon

And no hiding place from the truth;



I know I have to be determined to survive

But under this hard shell that I have had to grow

Is a centre that is soft

That understands, forgives and tries to lessen pain

And remembers things others would forget

Keeps keepsakes and harbours memories

Memories of no real importance at all -

Except to me;



Bring the tears to my eyes

And let the shivers run down my spine

Sentiment, stay here and sit next to me

And I will recall the forgotten days.