Is believed to be inside every human,
From conjuring a memory from a dream,
To witnessing a funny act and suffering a lifetime of petty arguments as to who and who didn't actually do it,
Or even remembering events before the age of memory existed.
I see those erased memories,
Like a bird that just flew far and farth away,
Ending lost to roam the spiky unconcious,
Dodging and resting,
To only being able to chirp its existence in our dreams...
Trying to let us know they're there.
As I got older,
And the bird started chipping at my branches,
I started worshipping the concept of false memories like she was my god,
I prayed and admired her,
For the times when my head felt like it would explode from that bird chirps,
I would cling to her,
Hoping that she would convince me not to listen,
That she'd deny that bird,
Give me a moment of silence.
Because those chirps,
Always speak the unimaginable,
That would **** me.