Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ackerrman Oct 7
Pupils gaze into the sun, I am stunned,
Unearth the power of Raa in your eyes,
Revel! As we lay for long hours, sunned
To death in the warm embrace of your fires.

As we wrap our lives around each other's
Souls as stinging nettles cradle soft skin,
Our life embers trickle, rumbles, smothers-
Nothing. Just- blood. Scars, filth under cover.
And you tickle the hair under my chin...

Time swells and the kind universe cradles-
I can't- stomach this ******* orange juice anymore!
I choke on the bits, I told you before,
How many times- and where is that *****?
What do you mean- “Lucy has gone before”
Good Lord, where has that ***** gone now. That *****-
Cotton wrapped ‘round faithful fairy fables—
Grandad? Is that you? What did you send me for?

This dream bred a silk no spider could weave,
Heavenly nirvana, none could conceive...

You. Child like, notions of freedom. So naive,
Your ****** up little attitude is hard to conceive.

Lucy? Lucy, is that you? -You ***** tease!
I am confused, did you drug me again?-
I shall follow wherever you may lead...
-You’re no better than when you’re on your knees-
Don’t leave me, like a little frightened Fen...
Just ask and I should spend my life on my knees.

My light is yours to – blank –

Tie the rope to the tree and ******* hang.

Lucy must be with Grandad, that’s why I
Can't find them- can't find my love- my bee.

How long until this moment passes by
Lucy, do me the Honour. Marry me.


So I watched the penultimate of Bojack Horseman season 4, and wow, I am pretty sure I have PTSD. Anyway, the episode inspired me. Here is a poem about dementia.
mercy party Sep 20
place your drink
so the seat appears taken
across from you

the memory of all the things
that we used to do
you always knew
you would lose
Starry Aug 28
Don't you find
Love is so short
Yet forgetting is so long
If you don't
This is the mind od someone
Scummimg to dementia
Francie Lynch Aug 28
I believe love has an evil twin,
But I could be losing my mind.
There are petals on thistles,
And thorns on roses;
I can turn 360 or 180
And ride off in any direction.
Tales run like a loop in my brain,
Not recalling who's heard what,
I preface:
I've probably told you this before, but...
Is how any old story begins.
Deja Vu is my new life.
Every thought was once a poem
To be polished and revealed.
Today, they are intermittent.

I've been trolling old television series;
The Monkees were terrible then,
Terrible still;
The Three Stooges were best left in the memory vault;
Bonanza still has Ben wearing his beige vest;
Elizabeth Montgomery is still bewitching;
Jeannie is irritatingly attractive.
I must be leaking grey cells;
Rationality is creaking in my bone-head.
Eryri Aug 27
This former giant, 
Commander of man and beast,
Now lies prone,
Horizontal to the Vertical of his prime,
Struggling to hear
Struggling to think
Struggling to commune,
Aura diminished to a dim dot glow
A sorry sight to behold
As age takes a steely hold.
I'm stuck in the sea
Between you and me.

I swim relentlessly towards you,
but the sea never ends.

Tick tock and I forgot whom I'm longing for, and I'm lost in an unrelenting Ocean of dread and misery.

Not knowing my starting point nor my destination, I find myself drowning in my own desolation.

I hear my name echo like thunder,
But the song to you your voice resonates no more.
It lost its magic.

With all that surrounds me I feel nothing but blue. My mind no longer recalls what it means to be "Me and You".

Maybe had we met half way, I'd still know who "YOU" are.
annh May 26
Her thoughts, gathered on the in-breath, are misplaced on the out-.

As her memories float free of their moorings, ninety summers fill the late-afternoon room with a kaleidoscope of people and places: a young girl in a home-made dress plays tag with her brother in a Provençal orchard; a dark-haired teenager waits at a station fiddling with the yellow star pinned to her cardigan; a Milanese tailor embroiders freshwater pearls onto a snow white wedding bodice; and - over by the window - a dashing young cavalry officer, with eyes which reflect my own, stands in the shade of a blue jacaranda.

‘J'ai oublié,’ she whispers as I nuzzle her cheek goodbye.

You may have forgotten, Bubbe, but I have not the stories you have told me.

‘We are a kaleidoscope of complicated intricacies. A million different facets of light and darkness.’
- K. M. Keeton
annh May 12
She sheds her memories like the filaments of a dandelion clock. Fragile and irreplaceable, they slip and tumble beyond her grasp; displaced in one breath, one word, one conversation.

Searching for what might have been in the diary of her imagination, she finds only scattered pages and missed entries. She hopes that tomorrow will be a better day. But tomorrow was yesterday.

‘Thin, I think, that fabric between realities. Maybe minds aren’t lost. Maybe they just slip through and find a different place to wander.’
- C.J. Tudor, The Chalk Man
John Reilly May 2
at 4 A.M.
you do these things
they become habit
eating in the middle of the night
waking up as routine
contemplating your plight
of you
what you do
in the middle of the night
is that really you
or a symptom
or side effect
did you choose the road here
or is it a neurological pathway
a chemical imbalance
a plaque to your horror
at 4A.M.
taking things apart
or are they
wrote this ages ago it seems but never posted.  I'm actually sleeping past 4AM now which helps my sanity a ton!  Thanks trazadone.
zero May 1
My memory fails me.
My head cannot contain these
faces anymore.
People tend to look more and more
the same every single day.
Sometimes I don't even recognise myself in
the mirror.
My face sags down at the cheeks.
My lips no longer full or pink.
My eyes grey.
No more green.
Not anymore.

My world is in this room.
The odd ornament brings
me back- I think.
These brown carpets.
These blue dressed nurses.
These white sheets.
This room is no longer my home.
This world is too confusing.

My family don't visit anymore.
Even if they did I wouldn't remember
what they looked like.
What they smelt like.
The way it felt to hold them.
My hands can't touch as well
as before.
They shake and spill.
I cry.
I don't know what's happening to me.

My mind doesn't work anymore.
Once I was lost I turned up here with
a suitcase I didn't pack and
a promise of weekly visits.
They forgot one week.
They forget the next.
They forget the next.
And they forget the next.
I can't remember what it was
like to feel loved anymore.
I can't curl up in bed.
I'm too stiff.
I'm simply too old.
Please visit the elderly. Sometimes being alone is the hardest fight.

Next page