Listening to Sting's new CD (which kicks ass, by the way; when I've listened to it a few more times, I'll be sure to write a review on Epinions) must have made me poetic. What I discovered today has stirred the muse:

Digging in the Dirt

Why must I dig in the dirt of the past
When it's so clean and nice where I am?
Is it because I like pain
Or because it moves me
To write, to create,
Or do I feel done wrong
By an ancient wrong?
Who did I think I was impressing or enobling
By snooping and spying on what's not mine anymore
When I have another, much better?
Why does the past tug so, when the present and future
Shine bright at my door?
I don't know, but I'm not going on
Google anymore.