Memories

Home

 

Back to back the night replays, 

Sitting here with a bottle called decay

 

And we’ve got the depression scented incense 

Sitting in a circle, wondering why it makes no kind of sense

Why I'm dwindling to live or live and suffer on the fence

 

I got fed up and left the room 

Went outside, tried to escape all that gloom

But what I found next was even worse, just rumors of doom

 

I visited this house I called home, but I’m not on the lease,

It all sounds so familiar, got the corpse of me laying there on center of the floor while you feast 

Got it displayed over there like an art piece 

Act like it was the true me, as if I was already deceased

 

But I’m still here, on the same broken couch, still sitting here 

You ignore me, go on, take another beer

Am I invisible? Do I not exist to you!?

Every part of me, debatable, divisible, that’s what you called only true.

I just want to find a breakthrough

And just like you, it never mattered, no matter what I do.

Just like you, 

 

It feels like an eternity since I left, I never cared to say goodbye 

All these broken objects still here, and I never understood why

But as I grew up, I know now, I know, it’s how you expressed to cry
The broken objects are a physical mental wall you built to hide
Broken and unwanted, justlike you,now I know, throwing it out was hard to decide

          

But you didn’t wanna outright say

You felt your own blood was a source of your betray

Leave the family, it’s better, leave them astray

Let her stay there, let her lay 

With all her demons she keeps at bay

 

I know now, your mind

Deteriorated

Dementia kissed you on the cheek and made us her kind

And like you I met her too, I became contaminated 

We are only moved by the broken blinds

Forever Unanimated 

 

You worship this building and every hole in the wall

Hide insecurity, and all that was spoken, ignore another call.

Put duct tape over the mess, and defend it all 

I wanted to ask, when did you begin this journey just to fall? 

 

 

I should leave before the sickness drives me mad

And just like you I close the door 

Until next time, dad

I close the door, and leave the past on the broken, dirty floor.

But unlike you, I must defeat what you couldn’t

The thing like me that you always avoid, the tainted inner core

 

 

View definemystic's Full Portfolio

My Old Playground

 

 
As I walk through my old playground, my safe haven I see how much everything has changed, yet there is so much familiarity it's almost as if not all has changed that much. 
I find myself longing for the times that I spent there with those I loved and loved me.
When I close my eyes, I see the little girl who would run and chase lightening bugs with her cousins.
The same girl who would grow up and walk the railroad tracks and learned how to get good at catching the ball with her dad.
Before I know it I see the young girl turning into a woman and hear her laughing with those she held close to her heart. 
Not only do I hear the laughter of love, I hear my grandmother talking and my daddy telling another one of his famous tales and seeing a mischievous grin on his face when he realized he had all convinced on whatever it might be.
I smile myself and let the memories wash over me as it fills my heart with joy and love.
I know when I open them I will see and hear my family that holds my heart. 
I am eager to see their smiling faces and feel their warm embrace for its been to long. 
I open my eyes and I feel my heartbreak into million little
pieces.
The house is run down, the grass hasn't been cut, no more rocking chairs, no sweet voices calling my name, no more games or smiles, no more joyous laughs and jokes.
For everything and everyone I loved is gone.
All I have left is a sad heart full of memories. 
My playground is gone. 
 
Author's Notes/Comments: 

I went back home to Kentucky a few years ago and as always had to pass the place I had spent most of my childhood. The previous trip back home, my aunt had lived there, however when I returned she had moved and the place looked like no one had lived there in ages. As I was led around the place, I could see and hear sounds of my youth. It was a grim reminder that you can never go back home. 

Running after memories

 

What is so special about this?

I mean writing poetry? 

Every day sending it to different strangers.

All over the globe and to unknown readers. 

 

The truth is that I met someone on that day.

That is why I write every day of my life.

To seek refuge and grace at the same.

Pardon for every day mistakes. 

 

To ask for forgiveness. 

When I chose my career over our relationship. 

Apologies for each daily mistakes that could be taken back.

To say sorry when I hurt her and did have the guts to own up to the problem. 

Most of all to ask forgiveness when I brought woman to her house for my own entertainment.

 

To beg mercy when she was praying for my protection and safety in was busy lying with another woman.

To plead for a second chance for my in maturity. 

I want to say sorry when I forgot to tell her how much I loved her.... 

Assuming me that she will remain with me for eternity. 

But I was totally wrong.

When she passed away in lost all that time.

 

That why wise people usually say the time is now!

I'f you want to love do it now!

If you want forgiveness ask it now!

If you want a relationship go for it now!

Or else you will sing "in my time" and find your self regretting you missed chances. 

To all you people out there in a relationship, call or send a message to your partner tell her how much you love them.

To all of you wanting to have someone in your love pray about it and have patience about it.

You don't want to rush into something  after getting married. 

Then true love knocks at your door.

 

Cause there is no love that begins after marriage. 

Love starts right now and it never ends.

When last did you utter the words 'I love you'

Cause all I have now is memories. 

Running after them like an antlete.

View pearson's Full Portfolio
tags:

Immortality

Folder: 
Light and Dark

Sometimes I hear the ghosts of my past

Often they whisper in my ear

Just out of consciousness

Barely audible, but present

 

Memories of those gone by

Now immortal in my mind

Forever they'll exist in me

Or at least as long as I live

 

For we are scars on the membrane of time

Carving our existence deep into it's flesh

Dying to gain immortality

Our existence tantamount to the memories of others

 

 

View seraphim's Full Portfolio

A smell in mind

 
   

A smell in mind

 

Coffee was an important part of my teacher’s day. No matter where you went, you could always see a big coffee mug with her name on it, quite literally. Be it a warm day, rainy day, a cold day or any day at all, you could always count on going to class and getting hit with the scent of coffee wafting through the room. She’d be late to classes sometimes, getting her coffee first. There needn’t be any sugar or creamer, all it took was a mug and coffee time was on. When life was tough, coffee was the one thing that kept her holding on to dear life. Through the various trips, the school visits, our concert trips to Austin and Mexico City, the coffee was there. A single coffee and breakfast was the reason why we missed our flight the first time. Even when we were at the airport, we had to had coffee. It was like a religion, drinking coffee every day. Starbucks, Dunkin’ Donuts, Krispy Kreme, Cinnabon, the brand wasn’t important, even if it was too big of a pay. A thing that made her happy was when people brought her coffee. It would instantly brighten up her day, even if they got the complete order wrong. “Coffee is coffee and my day isn’t complete without coffee,” she would say every day. Be warned, though, that the day she hadn’t had coffee, she could either love you or kill you. How can I forget about that mug in the front of the classroom, standing on a desk where she had been sitting, steaming the whole class, filling up the room with a small that will be unmistakable to me until the day I’m gone? On particularly cold days, she’d even bring a refill or send one of us to get it. The more I think about it, the less I can imagine her without a coffee mug or without drinking coffee for a full day. She used to joke about it being the center of her life, the defining factor in the day. Forget clothes, when her birthday was around, all of her students would be looking for crazy colorful mugs!  How can I enter a coffee shop and not think about the strong coffee smell that had so long ago permeated my mind? Alas, I cannot drink a cup of coffee without thinking about how much she’d love to have the same type of coffee too!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This short prose poem talks about my teacher and the memories I have of her and her coffee.

View albertobalderas's Full Portfolio

That Old Beige Yankees Cap

That Old Beige Yankees Cap, not very sure when it was supposed to be on top of my grandpa’s head, sometimes at the park, sometimes at the backyard, sometimes just going for groceries, but it never disappointed when we went to my grandpa’s ranch. This cap isn’t new or from a nice brand, it doesn’t have a crazy design; matter of fact I don’t even know where it came from, but one thing was certain about it: it always put my grandpa in a good mood, as if it was his lucky charm. We used to go to my grandpa’s ranch several times a year, there I had my first outdoor adventure, my first starry night, the first time I rode a horse, the first time I tasted beer, when I was scared of the wary “invisible” monsters of the night, or when I felt the strongest kid alive by lifting some (not so big) logs for the fireplace; jumping from joy or shaking in fear, one thing was certain for me in that ranch: that old beige Yankees cap man would be by my side. Despite of the obvious baseball passion my grandpa had, I never quite understood the reason of his New York Yankees fanaticism, however he always swore on them; I think that is the reason why he used that old beige Yankees cap as if it was the only cap he had, which I know it wasn’t the case because I myself gave my grandpa more than 10 caps so that he could give his outfit a little update. He never wore any of those caps, or any cap for that matter, other than his beloved one. I never had the chance to ask my grandpa: where did you got that cap? How old is it? Why is it so special to you? Why do you always wear it? It doesn’t matter; what matters is that my grandpa loved it. Every time I picture my grandpa that cap is on his head (with that funny slight tilt he always wore it with) as if it had glued onto him forever. After grandpa passed away, and his possessions were divided among family members, I could’ve chosen his fishing rod, his knife collection or even his fine watch; I don’t know why, if I hate baseball, if I was fed up with it, but of course: I chose that old beige Yankees cap.

View javierf98's Full Portfolio

The Bouttonniere and Corsage

Folder: 
Poems

I'm walking by a place,

A place that has lost its reason to walk by.

Now I look at it with a somber face and a heavy heart.

I do recall the times i was here,

the joy and cause I had to visit here.

But its not those reasons that make me low.

Not the nostolgiac talks or even the cause of the past that weighs on my soul.

It is the joy of then, and lack of it now that brings me low.

The smiles that were, the smiles that aren't and smiles that could have been

The smiles that could have been.

 

Now instead I walk falsely,

to make light of what weighs heavy.

To make light of what weighs heavy.

I hold my head a little higher, stand a little straighter,

work a little harder; work a little too hard.

Joke a little more, laugh a little louder and smile,

Smile a little too much.

To make light of what weighs heavy at the place I'm walking by.

As I Am

Folder: 
2017

We cut through like the sunshine before I wake,

we slice my fears light till they can float

Can you see me in the next moment

before it happens?

 

Please forgive me for all the things I never say

and for

how I form the clouds of breath that leave my mouth

the horizon follows me wherever I go

but I’ll never reach it.

 

We cut through like the sunshine before I wake,

we slice my fears light till they can float

are you as here as I am?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 8/22/17

View tallsquirrelgirl's Full Portfolio

night swimming

Folder: 
2017

there is something

so revealing about the dark.

 

the water twists around my ankles,

your name twists around my heart.

 

there is something

so freeing about a sleeping sun.

 

I shiver on these awake summer nights,

dripping and frozen and I would still do it again.

 

there is something

so dangerous about the letters night pulls from my lips.

 

 

I don’t know if I would say this tomorrow.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 6/24/17