I remember like yesterday
The press of the steel
Coldly unforgiving
Angry scars remaining
Where creamy skin belongs

I remember like the day before
The dark that came at dawn
The promise
An addiction
Pushing ever closer

I remember like only moments ago
The beauty in the nightlight
Melancholy over
Life savored
Because of you.

A forgotten idea
Left behind
In the back of a mind

A note resonating throughout the atmosphere
The beginning of a sonata
Eternally remaining midair

A lingering touch
Barely felt
Then gone

Is a poem really a poem?
If I write it in a moment,
Leave little to remember,
and most to be forgotten?

Is a poem really a poem?
If I leave myself out,
Write only what you wanted,
Leave the dark of doubt?

Is this really a poem?
Wasting space and time,
In my Literature class,
While allowing a tiny rhyme?

Could life be a poem?
If I become too philosophic,
Allow myself to wonder,
When all else has been,
forgotten..?