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Eloisa Jun 2019
Your last sweetest kiss
In the land of the palm trees
Faith and golden sands
Nolan Willett Apr 2019
I remember things in an order that is strange,
I can’t quite seem to arrange,
Middle, beginning, and end.
I think I’ve gone ‘round the bend.
Nzangi Muimi Mar 2019
As a distant recollection slowly forming,
A brick a mortar progressively building,
Thoughts, emotions, ideas clouding,
Maybe to be forgotten or worth remembering

To be wealthy and rich, why does it matter?
Maybe younger and brighter and smarter,
Would convince me to press the starter,
To question, to vindicate or disregard the former

The chase, the struggle is real,
Young, old, weak and strong, all with zeal,
As it rotates like unrolling the reel,
Life goes on, desire burns propelling the wheel

Cells wear out and brains boggle,
At the end always wins Google,
I am weak and strong and I cannot afford the struggle,
But I know I will win if I engage the full throttle

The distant recollection finally forms,
Reality dawns and the thrilling dream booms,
It’s not really a reality, it’s indeed a mystery,
Oh! And wait, it evaporates into nothingness!
What life is worth living?
CautiousRain Oct 2018
Oh, whispers in the wind,
I beg of you, please,
tell me of things
departed within
the crevices of my memories
before I lose
all semblance of self.
oldies for the night
these past few posts were during my extreme memory issues
oof
Sanch Sep 2018
I have two problems
           one is missing
           missing is another
I don’t know which one is worse
But I know
           both hurts
Who could have saved me
But me
           Stop.
You could have saved me
           from drowning
But all you did
           was to turn a blind eye
In front of me was missed
           miss;
           you are missed
And within me
           was a mess
           a shattered belief
I knew that moment both needs a resolve
And I thought I was there
I thought I could
           save myself from missing
           and find what's missing
To all the people in my life…
All of you that truly care...
I want to say thank you...
Because,  without you...  
I wouldn't care...

I know I ***** up...
I know I'm far from perfect...
But even at my lowest...
You never let me forget ...

You taught me how to walk again When I could  barely even stand.
And whenever I would fall...
You were there to  pick me up again

Every tear that fell…
Every mistake I ever made.
And every single sin.
You held them all within your hands
And with a smile…
You tossed each one into the wind.

When i hit the ground.
On my knees, punching the grass, And cursing your name.
You were never ashamed


Through every bad decision,
Every empty memory that was forgotten or stained..
Every burden I carried with me
And all my pain

You stood fearless through every  consequence.
All the shame i wish i could forget…
But continue to remember every day..

I was stumbling blind…
Living day to day, in darkness and misery.
  But you gave me sight, You brightened  my life,  Helping me to see, where I need to be.

You held my hand...
Lifted  my head...
And led me straight ahead…
Until all the skies overhead…
Turned blue once again..

No more fire,
Hell with the brimstone…
With you, I stand tall...
With you…I can clearly see…
Every crooked  path…
that lies in front of me

Thank you…
Whoever you are.
For always being there.
You believed in me...
You cared…
When I thought no one did.
Extended version of a writing I previously shared. Let me know which you like better and why please. Thank you all and enjoy.
Passang Sherpa Jul 2018
Alone in the room, with a brush in my hand
Colors, on the palette, an easel, on the stand.
I keep splashing the paint, a figure does appear,
A figure of a lady, standing by the, hallway stair.

Late in her forties, but to me, she looks no old
Very well attired, fully decked up in gold.
Frilled skirt with stockings, up to her knees,
And with a collared T-shirt, that’s pinkish.
Glaring with a bright radiance, looking very fair,
She looks so magnificent, sitting by the hallway stair.

The portrait completed, I hang it up the wall,
She reminds me of someone, as I do recall,
Of this girl I, once did know, from yesteryear
Oh! The fair lady! Sitting by the hallway stair.

Copyright © PS
Bryce Jun 2018
In the fragments of my dream-state, I saw a past I didn't wish to uncover.

My old home-street.
It was the summer of a childhood memory, and the air was temperate-- like lukewarm water, suspended and perfect, almost vacuous-- without breeze or gust, as if strung up in some test-tube of a world.

The suburban houses lined the path, it felt the dawning age of autumn-- that though the trees were green, I could feel them ready to release themselves. to fall and die-- but not yet.

In the front lawns of these houses, exotic vehicles-- Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Maseratis-- an Italian road show strange and deeply uncouth.

With bright fantastic colors of cherry red and enamel white and neon green and twilight blue and midday yellow and magenta-- they portrayed as monuments, movable statues, and like a hometown get-together the families of the houses stood next to them, proud...waiting. For something.

I walked past, the spectral calls of my childhood friends and neighbors following and whispering inaudibly behind me-- a muffled shadow of voice that I yearned to understand, but could not. They laughed and spoke of illusory things, and within their voices dictated golden, pleasant memory, and a creeping sense of melancholy.

I could see my house at the end of the street. As we walked, it was as if a million summers came and went-- fathers pruned their oak trees, waxed their automobiles, pantomimed cooking and eating and drinking and mirth-- while the sunless sky glowed soft and infantile, a cloudless blanket.

Deep in my consciousness, I felt dread to return home. There was something off-- and as the dream world strips you of your familiarity, of your defenses and rationale, the raw beating flesh of fear spasms.

We reached the house, the procession of childhood friends all but dissipated. The old oak tree in the front lawn had been removed, the soft scent of lavender replaced with the vibrant colors of red rose and lanky yellow tulips that stood in piqued attention, long leaves of perfect green-- a new garden for a new soul.

An unfamiliar girl/woman-- perhaps the new owner of my lost home-- opened the garage, guided me inside.

Inside there was a McClaren, grey and yellow and unbelievably beautiful-- but dark and covered in dust. The garage was always dusty. How interesting that she would leave her prize hidden from the festivities...

She opened the door, in I walked.

In dreams often what we understand of geography and place shifts radically-- so that we may encounter a more unfamiliar world, to recognize it as distinct from waking memory. Perhaps so that we do not get lost-- to give us a way out, a logical incongruity to feed ourselves-- to convince ourselves that this world is imaginary, that it is irrational and inexplicable.

Yet when I entered my home, it was as if I had never left. The television cabinet, the floral couches, the wrought-iron fence through the kitchen door-- all of a sudden I was home again. For all the times I wondered, imagined the new family that took my childhood home--it was okay. It was safe. it was respected.

In the living room, the new family was unpacking posters. Old cartoons and comic characters next to the Christmas fireplace. Upstairs I heard muffled conversation-- bouncing off the vaulted front atrium to my ears, they were in the rumpus room-- the room I had so often called my own-- where I lost myself in books and games and puzzles and dreams. I wanted desperately to see it, yet I felt a slight unease-- I did not wish to push further than I would be let.

The woman guided me to the family room table, where we would so often have our family dinners-- and I would hide myself underneath the legs of unknown relatives, playing with the dog or tracing my finger along the exposed, unfinished wood of the underbelly-- and these memories flooded my dream-- a daydream within a dream-- calling with it a deluge of melancholic nostalgia-- a sort of hypnogogic recollection.

I could feel the stinging ache of these memories. I could hear myself weeping against the chair leg, looking out the french doors into the garden full of roses and grass and lilies and tulips-- familiar yet alien, alive and dead, lost and found. The ache was painful, yet when I suddenly awoke I found myself overcome with a sort of exhausted pleasure-- the kind of feeling one gets after crying for a long time, crying into the end of one's breath-- at the end of a long period of pain, or a resolutive tantrum.
I'm still thinking about this dream, and the one of the night before. Long has it been since I have had such vivid hallucinations, as with indiscriminate drink and smoke managed to mostly eliminate them from my life. It is both disturbing and satisfying to see them once again-- to perhaps withdraw meaning from them once more.
Gail Hannon May 2018
A shadow of stories told as a group,
Memories of times they were never alone,
A child wanders an empty room,
Remembering when it used to be a home.
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