The Ultimate Knowledge is SELF-KNOWLEDGE.
Everything else tends to be forgotten.
If it ISN'T forgotten, it probably SHOULD be forgotten.
That's what computers are for.
To store data.

Forget my face
Forget my name
But never forget the fun we had

Forget who I was to you
Forget about every minute we spent
But never forget what I made you feel

Forget the color of my eyes
Forget the feeling of my hand in yours
But never forget I loved you with all my heart.

Do you think
We can find God again
Or is our amnesia
Too strong?
In this Information Age,
It's hard to keep track of anything,
Especially Something as big as God.
Joshua Dogan says
That I'm probably on a Department of Defense
Government Watch List by now.
That's good.
At least the Department of Defense
Won't forget about me,
But does President Donald Trump
Know where God is?
Probably not.
I think his Dementia
Has caused him to forget about God.

Lose yourself
And Find Inspiration
Forget who you think you are
And remember
That which  really makes you distinct.

Your remarks have been censored!
Your remarks have been banned!
Your remarks have been erased from the official records!
Do you remember
What you said?

nicoii Dec 2016

dense, warm air and sticky grins were prominent during those sunny summer days
tripping over our friends and muffled laughter
grass stained shorts and muddy fingernails
wet, curly locks of dark hair and bare feet squishing against the grass
kids are known to be careless
a big bowl of fresh strawberries is placed onto the plaid blanket spread across the prickly grass blades
and we shoved our hands in quickly to see who could get the huge strawberry in the middle first
some blades of grass stuck right through the blanket and poked our legs hard enough to make it sting but it didnt phase us
neither did our grimy hands as we devoured the delicious fruit.
we were messy kids. the juice dripped down our arms, creating a translucent river of rosy red juice
you licked yours up but i stared at mine, intrigued as the river followed my veins and settled in the crooks of my bent elbow
i couldnt resist slurping it up eventually though
strawberries were always my favorite

several years later it isnt the same
the red river dripping down my arm, following my veins and settling in my bent elbow didnt taste the same as the sweet strawberries of summertime.
the gashes on my arm werent from an intense game of tag with a friend
or from rolling around in the grass too roughly
these gashes were more than just booboos
mommy couldnt kiss these and make them all better
mommy couldnt make them disappear
i couldnt make them disappear
i made them appear
they are here to stay, and not some sticky juices from a summertime delight
they were sticky juices from a wintertime despair.
a twisted mind
a long sleeved hoodie in 90 degree weather
a sad excuse as to why it was a hoodie instead of a t shirt or a tank top
a bit lip to hold back the tears
a friend who tried their hardest, but couldnt notice and brushed it off
a forever tainted mind

whenever someone offers me strawberries
i take them, even if i am filled to the brim or sick of strawberries altogether
because maybe if i overdose on strawberries
my mind will blur
and all the memories of the thick, dark red river of wintertime despair
will all become replaced with strawberry juice
and i will wake up
and it will have been nothing but a fever dream.

Arcassin B Aug 2016

By Arcassin Burnham

How did it feel when you took her and made her
Understand that you were the one who cared and
Showed her more compassion?
How did it feel when you've noticed all her
Imperfections letting her go off into the sunset in
A paper town?
How did it feel?
Oh! How did it feel?
Watching over her like the hawk, making sure she'd text back,

How did it feel when you told her all of those things
Before she ran off and never came back?
How did it feel when you looked for clues and letter boxes
Going on a journey just to see if she'd turn up,
How did it feel?
Oh! How did it feel?
Watching over her like the hawk, making sure she'd text back....
One day, one day.


You might think that they have some Noble Ideal.
You might think that they are promoting
An Alternative Paradigm to the Culture that exists,
But all they really want to do is Get Stupid,
And Get Rich doin' it.

I was on my way
I forgot where I was going.
I developed amnesia.
I just submitted this poem
To the Pilgrimage Poetry Group
Instead of going anywhere.

Most memories
Become hazy and indistinct.
The only memories I seem to hold on to
Are traumatic, bitter ones.
The rest
Go into the Recycling Bin
To make room
For new experiences

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