I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

Last night, I had a dream, It was all about you & me. We roamed all over, hand in hand, Saw everything, across the land. Then the time came to part, I cried, for it was breaking my heart. Even though I knew it had to be, I needed to know why it was me. Released your grasp slowly, with despair, Watched as you turned, your beautiful hair. Slowly, in the horizon, you shrank, That was the last, it was all I could take.

Am I wrong, or is this poem not entirely shitty?