The girls are crying, and the boys are masturbating

So yeah, for one reason or another, I stopped writing poetry around junior year of high school. Maybe I didn't have time, maybe I didn't have anything to write about (bullshit). I want to try to get back into it. I feel now that some things were left wide open, in some cases because I want to get back to them, in others because I didn't want to waste the emotional energy necessary to fully close them. Whatever. I have a few nice little verse-isms floating around, and I bet someone will know what this is as soon as they read it.

One little piece in the box
And those were your words
It was like the best possible thing
The one that was designed so that it could never ever last
And I knew it
I silently denied
When you said forever
A little leaf of dishonesty swept up in a slipstream
There was no how, just when
I left
My old life stored away in a walk-in closet at home
And even after I had continued to pretend
I knew you were a little piece in my box of old memories
But memories persist, they never cease to exist
Though I've kissed new pairs of lips
And hugged new pairs of hips
Certain things always remain
I came home
And found my box of old self
Unmolested by that which overwhelmed me, it lay
And I knew which little piece was on top.

I was inspired by a very random quote on someone's livejournal, talking about finding a little piece for the box they were going to send. The metaphor kind of built itself from there.
If anything, it's about turmoil. It's not about going backwards, it's about the turmoil when you dwell, and knowing that, though I move forward, certain things will always be in your mind in some ways. Certain things will always make a very deep impression, and as much as they have affected your life, it is simply another part of life to know when things are to be left behind. I apparently hurt someone before by saying it, but I still believe it's true. It doesn't mean you aren't affected by the transition, but it's a transition, not a trauma. And it goes by.
Things have changed rapidly, but I couldn't be happier with where they are now. Being home makes me feel like I'm in stasis again, so passive among everything else. I guess the word is homesick, but this "home" I'm at now isn't where I want to go back to.
Poetry is truer to emotion than prose is. It shows pretty indicatively how I feel about certain things. And it's hard, knowing that some things are completely disconnected, by distance, by lack of communication. I couldn't tell you how I feel about certain things, being so far removed from them. It's another reason I don't particularly like being "home".

Sent out an e-mail about PBP. Hopefully will get some responses by Monday.