A Penny for The Days We Played

It's the early hours that the past creeps in, jostling your brain with rose tinted memories of friends and faces all grins and even the love shared now and then; never the pain, nor the betrayal, nor your stupid blunders that blew friendships away in hurricane fashion. It's always the lazy, sticky summer days playing in the sun, the laughing games of tag and Marco Polo, and the occasional slice of cake at the birthday party. We aren't programed to dwell on the bad, not in the wee hours, our minds block most of the bad and enhance the good in ways that the Pope would saint us were we the only record of our deeds. Sadly, there's already a saint Matthew, so I'd have to settle for Saint Matty G., patron saint of bad white rappers. Thank God I'm not Catholic.