We hold fast to our old hurts
Like barnacles to a ship,
And they will not heal until
We loose our deathly grip.
Those wounds carried on our souls
That burn and fester deep,
Ever present they abide
And they hold the tears we weep.
What do you gain to carry
That pain for all the years,
But strife and weary worry
That serves but to hold your tears?
To forget a painful past
Is not such an easy thing,
But which is a worthwhile task
For the peace that it may bring.
No future that is set in stone,
No life etched in granite deep,
That we cannot choose to change
But that we must choose to keep.