Memories Are made of this
They're made out of things
That I had almost forgotten
That I was so close to forgetting
All of the cuts and scars
Gracing my gun battered heart
They were so close to fading
I've written a lot about this recently
I realize because
While my mind sits back
Looking at that obsidian corner of my heart
The one that refuses to let go and listen
To be smart
To actually get its **** together
It has refused to break
My mind is tired of trudging along pulled by that part
I write because this is the only way I can actually put it together
Like picking up the pieces of a broken vase
And getting cut
I just stare at the blood
Not really feeling the stinging kiss of it
It's just another thing that bodies do
Bleed
But I guess I'm just not used to seeing it on the outside
When its always on the inside
I've always been like this
Slowly able to forget
But still
Timidly refusing to do so
As I'm typing away
My keys providing a steady click
I look up
And through the curtains
Through the closed shades
I can see that the sun has come up again
Oh
I guess I did it again
Staying up again
Because my past would rather haunt my active conscious
Where I can't help but think about it
Instead of haunting my dreams
Maybe if my mind could feel as my heart did
Would it feel sympathy?