One day our memories
will either become heartwarming photos
placed in gallery walls
were we can just admire them
for all of eternity
or they can become rotten pages
stuck in the back of our heads
slowly decaying away
never to be seen again
Wherever you put your memories
is up to you

Everyone's acting
like nothings going on,
Playing old roles
that's been over done

We've been walking down a corridor,
Now stumbling
Nostalgically at the door

Let's just open it!

The window shuts
With slender hands
A bond with the outside world ends
My skin is faint
The shade of mold
Rotting me out as I hold
close to my ear, a single fear tends
To push down my thoughts
With ice cold hands

Born in a cyber age
of this global disruption,
"What's your hobby?", - you'll ask.
I'll reply:
"Self-destruction."

the older i am met                                                      
the bolder the thatch-work of scabbing        
walls are thrown up in front of new ideas
and i am redirected       

the resinous connective issues  of the brain
     mineralization of thought
told and taught knots of gristle                                     
                    ­               enforced from childhood    they surface

i remember how things 'ought be'
the ways my parents parents  parented me
              the lessons recrystallize
cold hard classroom rosin develops       
 held in robust bond   well sold ideas are solid now 
                                         and they defy challenge

but challenge  i must insist        
                    as i resist  into reclining years
and fight this cementing form                               
founded on the dead corrective tissue
that is welcomed   by aging