Prose. Is it poetry? —Or not?

Or maybe it's excusable if it's beautiful.

But argh! My old handwriting isn't really that pretty. Illegible. Sort of.

Why would somebody want to read this?

—Here there be no fiction. Only a disorganized time capsule of scribbled words.

—This is me. Uncensored. Crude. Raw. Ink from a naked, bare.

A self-reflection past the expiration date. Past, bygone, past.