I understand exactly what you mean and what you're saying. I wrote a poem that I really want to share with you. I hope it makes sense.

Oh, the things we keep!
– Sept 2016

A room, it’s plain, an office of sorts,
desk, wood floors, but no windows or ports.
but there are! they’re covered with boards and with webs,
spun by spiders with long, hairy legs.

Lying beside the door closed tight,
is a stack of boxes awash in dingy bulb light.
those boxes are sagging, frail, and old
covered in years of stinking green mold.

Oh no! dr. suess has arrived in my poem,
a sarcastic interlude during our tour of my room.
he knocks on the door, ‘will you come out?’
‘not a chance’, i say, ‘you rhyming old kraut!’

Now, deep in those boxes, held tight in their fold
are memories, thoughts and feelings of old.
from beatings to baseball, from a to z.
too bad it’s something you don’t get to see.

Everyone has that one special place
that hides the **** and the shame on their face.
boxes of poison covered in green mold gone bad,
a picture of an ogre, put there by dad.

Each day i step into my office of pain,
the only place where i can stay sane.
I gaze at the picture of the ogre that’s me,
complete with flies like smoke from a burning tree.

Not to be outdone, no not dear old mom,
dead as a ghost from the munchausen prom.
she split me off and made me alone,
to rub her feet, sore to the bone.

Of her in my box is an envelope bare
with nothing in it, it’s just not fair.
in death as in life, she left me alone
to face the wrath of dad, the useless old crone.

Little more will i say of my drippy old boxes,
loaded with things that are frankly quite toxic.
In my office, my mind, it’s where they’ll remain,
safe and secure, to hide my shame.

Alas, dr suess, out there you must stay,
in fact, could you please, please go away.
i’m perfectly fine to sit here and groan
in my dusty old office, all alone.