The Uninvited Guest

The past is the uninvited guest sitting speechless in the room.

An unruly thug of remembrances liable to say anything soon.

Dead days and dead dreams are parked on memory lane.

The past wishes to speak for the present as they're just the same.

A memory will lean out the window to catch a little air.
Especially if that recollection is far too much to bare.  

Was it your mother in you that became unreasonable,
or was it the voice of reason that became treasonable?

Must've been your attitude that locked you in that cage of rage.

Or was it me always shoving you so selfishly backstage?

You were always so sure of herself and never in doubt.
Ever noticed Zen Buddhists never shout?

It is only the open heart that gets broken,
the pain, the grief, the regrets, stay unspoken.