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Alaska is a cold place, where I met my love
Though memory eludes me, know that,
The girl I met from a number of miles away
Whom I grew to love as we took turns shouting
She is as true as the piercing gale
She is as warm as she is pale

I let her go from a great height, into the depths of the Pacific
And watched her fall into the chasm
She did not fret or stare, but closed her palms 
I smiled and cried happiness until the sea was filled
She is as true as a dying mill
She is as warm as she is still

We are so cavalier, the world in a waltz 
As we shoot a parade of bullets in threes
These crimes! It is the blissful appeal of watching
Humanity itself die, for the sake of one human
She is as true as I
She is warm as we fly

We speak of stories as borealis enshrouds us
Her stories would have us freeze the world over
I gawked and adored her beautiful mind
But I would later be her fool 
She is as true as an aimed gun
She is as warm as she is undone

She did not keep up with her age too well
Our crusades had stalled her mind and then
I knew she would not stand for me to dream without her
We would not have the world to ourselves again
She is as true as our last winter stroll
She is as warm as the coldest atoll 

Alaska is a cold place, where I lost my love
Though memory erased her, I know this much
I would have frozen her in time
Just to rule the world a little while longer
I don't hold regret for the deaths we brought
I write her, holding the same thought
Blade Maiden Sep 15

I want
my heart on a platter
so I can see the ins and outs
Want the act to matter
See it mirrored, my mouth, it shouts

Feels like
standing in front of the mic
singing of losing track of time
remembering this certain chime

Means I
don't really know how to defy
feeling lost in the rubble
of uncertainties and trouble

I hide
behind buckets full of the tide
I filled when the ocean didn't look
all I could see I took

I keep
time in a place safe and deep
live inside a moonlit jar
an ocean filled reservoir
read my own memoir
and said au revoir
Shofi Ahmed Jul 23
Tomorrow's sunrise
is a memoir.
It remembers
an exact mirror.

Like it showed up
a thousand times earlier.
At the end of the same
veiled night.

Once again will it take
a trip to the memory lane
and lay on a sea of primulas
interpreting in colour
that’s sweet dream!

The sun is in the know
It will paint across.
But own’t touch the rose
it will sleep in its dew.
Patrick Apr 19
Stars filled the sky of my heart.
Little spots of light that brighten up the dark.
One by one they came undone,
Bringing, along with darkness, fear of what I've become.

A fiery blaze that engulfs all known art.
A chaotic, blue storm that tears you apart.
You are left only feeling estranged.
Like your heart is just stock to be traded in the exchange.

One by one you lose your stars.
The only thing left before death: To pen your memoirs.
Of life, of love, of pain, of loss.
A heart more exposed that a man in the buff.

But who would read such a tragic tale?
Who would want to hear every gorey detail?
Who would want to imagine a pain so intense?
Who would want to know that you traded for love; Traded all your sense.

But there was never love returned.

This is a memoir of my heart.
The only redeeming fact: this tragedy became a warning in the form of art.
Breathe in the rustling leaves
Hide behind the unwanted plants that arise
From the creaks in the concrete.
Perhaps they have discovered a source of life
Far sublime than the one you dwell in.
The wind, the wind,
The wind blows opposite
To where the bird wants to go.
The wind, the wind,
The happy eucalyptus oscillating in unison
Bidding adieu to the birds in flight.
The wind, the wind,
Making fishes out of thoughts,
Myriad corals and hydrae out of trees.

The water tank
Formidable in its all absorbing blackness,
Contains the most lucid, transparent and fragile,
Of man’s ultimate conquests.
Water.
Which drips from above sometimes
When the sky salivates
At the hot porridge
Of a lifeless mess
Beneath itself.
Birds are like kites,
Leaves are like fingers
Dexterously typing whispers
Like signals to the wind.

Limited is the vision
Where we sit now.
Our backs immersed in the restlessness
Of the occasional writer;
Our eyes fixated on the botchy
Grey watercolor work of the sky.
Everywhere we look, wherever we see,
A band of seven colors break the reverie.
The enthusiastic trees type harder
All leaves in the virulence of a martyr.
Close your eyes.
Step beyond the panorama which
Refuses to bare itself before your soul.
Step beyond the boundaries of the visible,
Into the consolation of the miscible
Voices.

Moribund shrubs,
With faces of the half dead,
Half faced creatures of the unformed,
The cruel monotony of their demands resonate
Wildly with the marginalized.
How in their knots and hunches,
Leaves drooping intoxicated
From the light stolen away by
The more representative, the more vociferous,
Lies the silent acceptance of their abandon.
Here and there taller branches,
Crane towards the sunlight,
Hoping for the winds to listen,
Or perhaps,
For the sun to burn them away first.
Old cranes and their ignominious hoarse throats,
Can only coax words that are coarse.

The dull, blotted uniform grey
Densifies at certain places
A somber sleep indulges the sky.
The winds now,
In their frightful fancy
Scour the floor of your feet
Touching you soles,
Your shoulder, your spirit.
But the playful naught of the wind
Derives insatiable pleasure from
Tickling the trees,
Rocking the eucalyptus,
Till the moonlight washes away
All the eccentricities
Of the frivolous day.

After a joyous revelry,
The tree laughs less
The vigor in its chuckle realizes,
That it is time to retire.
The sky rearranges its clouds
To cast a pallor
Loses the yellow
The grey, for a darker, almost impenetrable
Black.
The water tank camouflages
With our beady eyeballs.
The transparent water fills up
You and me.
Our eyes dilate, staring into the sky
Bidding the dusk good-bye.
Come, live with me, a little
Poonam Mar 28
In the wake of twilight, When memories stir you
Unwrap the book of a soul, A sketch have been carved
Unravel a chronicle of its painter, Hidden in the canvas

Moments of lonely summer days, tumultuous rainy evenings
Craving for someone to hold, in freezing winter nights
Etched in the canvas, She painted it with words

Distance would be crossed, separated by life and death
Caress the words, You will feel her pounding heart
Smell the pages, Breathe in her feelings

Lifetime she has woven, It’s her mirror image
You will understand her, Love her more than you did
She sketched it for you, It had always been only for you

If smile brightens your eyes, It’s her smile for you
If it saddens, remember it would be only her sadness
Tears smudged in words, The ones she couldn’t hold

Her soul thrives in her memorabilia, Kept hidden in her lifetime
If you see her spirit between the lines, She will rest in peace
Wrap the chronicle as the twilight sleeps, Rest embracing her memories
Someday I'm going to wake up
From my old rocking chair,
Somewhere far beyond this shore
And begin writing a memoir on my laptop.
The title, though vague and mundane,
Will encapsulate the tales of my life's journey.

In it, I will say less about money
or the girls I once called honey.
But I will rather mention that one special lady;
Who stood by me and only called me baby.

I'm going to dedicate an entire chapter to my people,
I'm going to talk about their resilience to the struggle.
There will also be a chapter dedicated to love;
Love for mankind, my family and the man above.

I'm also going to make mention of all the things I have done.
Be it good or bad, I will write even if it takes the afternoon.
One by one I will write down everything I did wrong.
After that, I'll play me my favorite Bob Marly song,

That one that tells the story of slavery and redemption.
In that particular one, I will use a little procrastination...
And at the very end of that memoir, I will give thanks to ***,
For grace upon my life, my kids, my hustle and for spoken word.

Someday I will wake up far beyond this shore,
and write the final chapter of my life's journey.
I will then reveal the last wish of my life before I die.
I swear it will be so funny, it'll make every reader laugh.

IB-Poetry ©️
3/25/2018
I really don't know much about writing a memoir, is this a part of it, have I revealed too much already?
Tsunami Mar 17
I talk to the moon every night,
During my evening smoke break.
Bathed in moonlight,
I ache.

Her and I,
Waltzing around the subject of goodbye.
We parley.

The stars,
Inquire of my lonliness
As if my memoirs
were written anonymous

Whisper to the nebulous clouds
resembling smoke from my lit cigarette
nothing to make a sound
Looping over and over on a cassette
i know you hurt me and you think its funny but i still love you and i still miss you
Rebel Heart Feb 17
I saw something today
That reminded me of you
So I picked up my phone
Put in your number
And excitedly waited to talk to you
But with every ring you didn't pick up
My heart dropped lower out of my chest
.
.
"I'm not near my phone right now.. that or I'm purposely ignoring you Shanon just leave a message at the beep.. or don't whatever"
.
Beep
.
.

And it all hit me all over again
The feeling of choking
On my own tears
Drowning out the rest of the world
Because it had been so long
Since I last heard your voice
Yet it seemed it was only yesterday
We were playing street hockey
And making fun of eachother
And talking on the phone all night long
Just to hang out all day after
...
We would talk about our past
And what our future may hold
We talked about our demons
And secrets we never told
...
I remember being so angry
The day you left
After all we've been through
No sorry
No goodbye
Not even a single note
Explaining why
You decided I wasn't enough reason
For you to not climb into that bathtub
And press that razor blade onto your skin
...
How dare the sky rumble
When they took your lifeless body just to throw it in the ground
How dare the others cry
When you didn't make a single sound
How dare the birds still sing
When the world was falling apart
How dare the moon still come up
When nothing in the universe seemed to make sense
How dare they believe poems had to rhyme
How dare they still talk about the good old days
How dare they believe for one second they knew you at all
And most of all
How dare you--

How dare you leave me so broken
How dare you leave me so alone
How dare you call me your best friend
Just to leave me on my own?

...
The darkness lingering around my past
Found a deeper grip around my soul that day
As I watched pieces of my heart
Leave with you
.
.
.
Now I find myself sitting here awkwardly
Finally being able to string these useless letters
Into coherent words
To ask you if you're still listening up in the clouds
How dare you not pick up anymore
When I call you on the phone?



~Who else am I supposed to talk to when late at night my demons won't be put to sleep?
Who else am I supposed to talk to when all I want to do is curl up in a ball and weep?
(Pieces of a very old, 22-page-long, extremely agonizing memoir that brought me to tears because how dare you, with all this pain you carry in your heart, not realize how much you're hurting me before you're even gone? ~BM)

(Front Page 2/18/2018)
Ammar Feb 10
we turn memories into memoirs
and
memoirs turn to pain
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