In school I was asked to write,

In a journal wrapped with wire.

What is it that when you leave

Others to think of you

Do you aspire?

Now I was perhaps all of sixteen

And hardened by pain.

Atracked by my own mind,

Driven half insane.

The teacher was one

Who held my notion,

Inspiration flowed from her,

And put the pen to motion.

I think that I wrote that kind

Is the greatest thing anyone

Could possibly ever think of me.

Since that day,

Nearly thirty years

Have all but flown away.

Every now and then,

My mind is drawn back.

I find myself understanding

Something that then I lacked.

Though kind is a virtue,

One so many do lack,

If I am honest,

More matter of fact,

Then I would answer it different.

I think instead when I leave a room,

I would rather that people

Instead thought me true.