I can’t remember my last birthday,
i can’t recall last week

When there is so much to remember,
where there is so much to create a memories
I blank,

Where the ghost of my mind,
is chained to the floor

The past maybe my  history,
but I do not live in the past

I live in the now,
Now moves,
too fast
and sometimes too slow

Some people say that our past makes us,
that it is the mold which our clay fills

That we are just the misshapen clay
molded by our stories

**But what if there is no mold?