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Pyrrha Aug 21
I've wasted so much time on being told who I am
That I no longer have any time to discover myself
I feel like I have amnesia
And no one is being honest
They tell me one thing but it feels like another
I can't think for myself because "I don't know"
Is it 'I don't know', or 'I'm not allowed to find out'?

It's like amnesia, but with the memories
Ahnaf Jun 23
Let me take a page out of the book that gave you every look you passed me when I went about my life the way that I was taught

If you had only gone as far as lit my cigarette and smiled I would have given up the world for you and your trials

When you find your rhythm let me know, but I feel that you were never searching for truths not in your bestseller book

I’m sitting here still waiting for a turn to speak, but you’ve stuffed your ears with amnesia of history; it makes you free

I’m here looking at the sky; it’s my way to feel free for a bit of time, and it doesn’t hurt anyone, unlike yours

We were never in line, and it’s all fine, until you cup my mouth with all the force you gained from never having to think twice

Now let me take a lie out of your book and make it choke on all the tears that could have drowned your pages and made you realize

Shy and soft-spoken though I might be, there are ways to talk without speaking a single word and it’s worth a thousand photographs
Mal Apr 22
its the last walk through memory lane
i have memories of you, of us
but no matter how hard i try to stalk those memories back
my memory doesn't seem to last forever
i forgot a lot of things.
from the way you walk to the way you talk.
Ilonka Apr 15
when poetry will die
the apocalypse of the soul will erupt in each of us
my being made of lyrics
will get lost in contemporary illiteracy,
our daily food will be missing from the shelves in the libraries
and virtual pages will replace the smile of the sweet girl from my favorite bookstore,
I will no longer cuddle the book covers made with good taste
and I will no longer breathe stories that hide behind them,
thinking will become limited by a collective sentence
which will swallow me
and devour my last remaining metaphor,
then amnesia will make a nest in me
and I'll beg it never to leave me!
A world without poetry, a world without books would look like this.
CautiousRain Apr 8
A large crash;
Everything comes at once,
Drags you by your chest
and pulls you in,
Makes you relive every moment
And with scents
Breaking past your hyposmia,
Troubled voices crowding
In your ears, in your throat,
And you remember it all
Thumping in your chest,
Making you so ill,
Always sick, always prying
At your weakened body,
But you’ll forget it again,
Hoping it goes away,
And it will always find you
In hot flashes,
To drag you by your feet,
Asking you to see again.
I hate memory loss!!!!!!!!!!
CautiousRain Apr 8
I used to remember in images,
Movies, flipbooks, flying across my eyes,
But then I saw haze,
And the foggy screens became thicker,
So the grime and dust became darkness,
And through the darkness became words,
Disconnected, discolored, disjointed
Streams of words,
And so all my memories lost
Vision, became nothing but recalled statements,
So I could tell you yes it happened,
But how or why or what was sifted through a blender,
Chunked into a garbage disposal, and lost somewhere,
yes, the memory exists as a statement,
A declaration it occurred but oh so loosely,
You can’t be sure of it.
Ya girl back at it again with the flashbacks and memory loss.
Traveler Feb 21
Forgetful mindedness
And a feeling of dread
Suffocating poetic thoughts
Upon my bed

Morning words
My poetic views
Write them down
Break the rules

Every word
Every rhyme
Every passion of my mind
Written down
Line by line
Written down
Lost in time
Traveler Tim
Madisen Kuhn Feb 17
keep me awake
i keep falling asleep

i keep forgetting 
that i have
fearfully crawled
into places filled
to the brim with
heartbeats and
suffocating heat
just to find myself
with dry palms
and a soft jaw
minutes later

i hold my tongue
only to cut it off
when i hate
the feeling of it
inside my mouth
and leave it for
him to hold
all pink and slimy
and frantic and cruel
and wonder
why it’s hard for him
to read my poetry

and every night
i lie my head
against the chest
of indifference
and swear that
i can hear the
lazy thump of
his affection
resting shallowly
below thin ribs

i am kept awake
through the
loneliness hours
my own
instead of dressing
the deep cut
we both share
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