40 good poems minus a couple of so-so ones

When I was twenty I wrote poems. Without giving it much thought I just grabbed a pen and paper and wrote. It gave me a huge sense of freedom. Later, as I grew older, this sense of freedom diminished. I thought too much, reflected, dwelled on things and the pages stayed blank. I was abandoning the world of poets to grow closer that of adults, leaving freedom behind to inch slowly closer to death. And so I locked up these papers in the prison of a drawer and there they remained, condemned to a life sentence without even an hour of fresh air. For more than twenty years. Then one day the pardon and amnesty of memory made me open the drawer once more, to see if time had taken its toll on that freedom and beauty, as things are good only if they endure the test of time. I read and counted them: 35 were good, a couple not too bad. I then wrote three new ones. Will I write poetry even as an adult? I don’t know. For now I have written 38 good ones and a couple of so-so-ones. We shall see.