Those we think of who are over us

There is a part of me that has never grown up,
it is the memory of hidden pictures I still wish to keep,
which holds the power to make me feel and nothing less.
Of timeless history, only one person knows about.
Where do they go when I go?
They become Powerless and go away too
Where does it all go?
This part of me that has never grown up
is like a sentence thought of too many times.