Four years later

[This is a response to the following piece of crap poem, which I wrote in 8th grade (sorry to subject you to either of these):
A poem, with tattered wings
flying up--a bluebird sings
a buttercup is perched upon
by a spider dark as dawn
I take the knife
and slash the bars of
my paper cage--the silver stars welcome me
Come up, my daughter
to my arms
a spider's thread, the fragile strength
a rose, dead
of any length is
the string of fate, a maiden's heart
so hard with hate.
The unrest of a poet's soul,
insubstantial, undetermined goal ]


That poem, with tattered wings
Never made it through the screen--
Those mothlike words with broken things
and hopeless causes now do lie.
Now four years later I can see
The glory of the poet's truths
and noble deeds abandoned me--
Or did I see them there at all?
Searching for my destined goal
And grasping for the perfect words;
With four years gone not all is told
But still I see more clearly now.
And in the next four I'll come back
And mock my young words yet again.
What of that vision that I lack?
I'm chasing clouds towards better days.