It Feels Good To Move Your Mouth

I wrote some crazy poems in junior high, and most of them are missing now. For some reason, I have decided to write a poem in the style I would use in my 8th grade reading class, which was composed of three guys (one being myself, the other two good friends) and TWENTY -FIVE girls. Yes, that was probably the best year of my life. Well, maybe not, but it still rocked. Here is my emulation of myself in the 8th grade:

At night
I talk to ghosts
They stand around my bed
There's a ghost of my father
Though he's still alive
There's a ghost of my mother
Though she's alive, too
There's a ghost of me
He stands the closest
His whispers haunt my dreams
They fill my dreams with ghosts

In dreams
I talk to ghosts
They live inside my head
There's the ghost of my child
Though I've never had one
There's a ghost of my daughter
She looks just like me
She carries three roses
For her nonexistent father
Who dreamed he had a daughter
With nonexistent flowers
-END

See the joy in the repetition of words i.e. the word "nonexistent"? Anyway, that poem would have been written around ten years ago.
Now, I am not in any grade, and I don't have any classes with three guys and twenty-five girls. Isn't that sad?

Now, ten years later, what does my poetry look like?
Here, I wrote this in two minutes about three months ago:

I woke to soft rain
Pattering the panes of my eyes
Under dew-drenched flowers
I will sleep softly to spring
-END

What does this teach me? None of your business.