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#amnesia
In the attic, on the dresser. Past garbage eclectic and faulty electrics. There’s a dresser. With its drawers all locked like your head’s are. So you climb up the stairs and you go to that ***** little dresser, and on it you see… it the album you flip through it faces you dont know cant know used to know your head hurts your parents your grandparents great-grandparents even all their photos in this album all the faces are blank to you no eyes no mouths theres something wrong with you its still growing infecting So you put down the album. Take ten steps back. Down to the stairs you came from. And you “learn” to forget about the pain you felt and the life you lost in the attic. On the dresser. There was never anything there as far as you know now. As far as you’ve ever known. All you know is … something old is hurting you upstairs
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May 24
May 24, 2026 at 3:14 PM UTC
Something Old is Hurting You Upstairs
I The mind is a palimpsest of softened ink, where names once carved in graphite authority now blur into sedimented syllables. I try to retrieve her face, my middle-school best friend, but memory returns it as negative space, a photograph overexposed by time, light eating the edges of her laughter. II There are rooms inside me I no longer possess the keys for. In one, my mother is folding sunlight into laundry. In another, my voice is smaller, unlearning how to apologize for existing. I walk through these chambers like a curator of abandoned exhibitions, hands hovering over glass displays that contain only the impression of objects. III What remains is not recall but its residue: a tremor of familiarity when certain words pass through air, a scent that insists it knew me first, a street corner that refuses to confirm my history. Even joy arrives mislabeled, filed under something I cannot access. IV I make new days with meticulous devotion, stacking them like translucent pages, but the earlier volumes have begun to unbind themselves from the spine of my remembering. And I grieve not only what is lost, but the shape of loss itself, how it changes me without permission. V Still, I am here collecting fragments of a self that keeps slipping its own archive. If I cannot remember everything, then I will become the quiet witness to what remains anyway. VI Somewhere in this erosion, I hope she is still intact, my friend with a name I can almost hear, standing in a season I cannot revisit but still somehow miss.
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May 11
May 11, 2026 at 11:07 PM UTC
Index of What I Can No Longer Hold
I The mind is a palimpsest of softened ink, where names once carved in graphite authority now blur into sedimented syllables. I try to retrieve her face, my middle-school best friend, but memory returns it as negative space, a photograph overexposed by time, light eating the edges of her laughter. II There are rooms inside me I no longer possess the keys for. In one, my mother is folding sunlight into laundry. In another, my voice is smaller, unlearning how to apologize for existing. I walk through these chambers like a curator of abandoned exhibitions, hands hovering over glass displays that contain only the impression of objects. III What remains is not recall but its residue: a tremor of familiarity when certain words pass through air, a scent that insists it knew me first, a street corner that refuses to confirm my history. Even joy arrives mislabeled, filed under something I cannot access. IV I make new days with meticulous devotion, stacking them like translucent pages, but the earlier volumes have begun to unbind themselves from the spine of my remembering. And I grieve not only what is lost, but the shape of loss itself, how it changes me without permission. V Still, I am here collecting fragments of a self that keeps slipping its own archive. If I cannot remember everything, then I will become the quiet witness to what remains anyway. VI Somewhere in this erosion, I hope she is still intact, my friend with a name I can almost hear, standing in a season I cannot revisit but still somehow miss.
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50
when I wake up there’s a puzzle on the floor. placed not last Wednesday, but the one before. I think I placed it there the pieces white, I fit them together until its close enough to right though I can’t quite see the image anymore
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Oct 19, 2025
Oct 19, 2025 at 4:56 AM UTC
anterograde
It’s anger no, it’s frozen grief; hatred, deep—catharsis flows in poetry. Too cruel—to have left a slit of good memory. Mars blazes—open wounds, shattering to vindictive dust. Letters folded like curled serpent hair Why forget a single Mnemosyne of trauma? You blessed with amnesia; someone: remembrance's curse.
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Oct 6, 2025
Oct 6, 2025 at 5:27 AM UTC
🗞️ Fragments of Mnemosyne ⚡
The sinking has returned too fast. I knew sanity wouldn't last - but madness is here much too soon. Electric amnesia returns to me. Cacophonous thoughts breaking free tear my feet from trembling ground. My contradictory conscience ********** utter nonsense across the face of my clean slate. Peel back my shimmering rib cage, see insomnia's grip of rage still my dark heart into hurting. Plunge me into freezing waters where caught apathetic breath blurs treading to sinking to drowning. And I'm caught in the crawl spaces between the in between places - wretch to my opprobrious mind. Not if but when sayeth the doc to the tune of the ticking clock willing me to wave the white flag Madness is a graceless game.
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Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
Ricochet
I'm an anterograde amnesiac per se, But I remember what you did say.
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Dec 7, 2024
Dec 7, 2024 at 12:58 PM UTC
Strange Memories
memories flickering, fading,     endless ocean waiting, wading, closest kin and our best lived days,     lost now; in this minds murky maze love-shared moments felt together,     all drift away; with no tether, currents carry away from shore,     landless horizon forever more pitiful buoy thrown overboard,     to accept presents false reward, siren-like; drag you down with me,     engulfing all; this deep, blue sea
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Dec 5, 2024
Dec 5, 2024 at 10:00 AM UTC
Sea Change
I forgot what I forgot, So, I've moved on, And happily so. Was it someone's jibe, Taken at me sadistically, Or was it something else? Sorry, I forgot, I forgot that again, But it's perfectly fine.
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Sep 17, 2024
Sep 17, 2024 at 5:31 AM UTC
Sorry, I Forgot
I don't hold any memories Nothing that tells me what I like Or that tells me what I was like For all I know The only place I do know Is this bed of white sheets Where I wake up each day Every day these past two weeks And the only person I know Is that lady in white Greeting me every morning with a smile If nothing else, this sight Has found its place in my mind She showed me someone Someone who claims to know me Someone who went to school with me I do not know him though His 'me' resembled a butterfly Flitting between the flowers in a garden Giving each the attention deserved Gracefully, without any reserve. An image that felt quite foreign To this husk that remains at present Another day, She showed me someone Someone who claims to know me Someone who shared my blood I do not know her though Her 'me' seemed like a wise cat Knowing when to pick a fight Knowing when to restrain its bite Knowing how far of an arm's length To keep itself away From being too involved or too little In any event of concern around it I should learn from such a cat, But I find it hard to believe I was that. Yet another day, She showed me someone Someone who claims to know me Someone who claims to love me And also claims to love me as I am I do not know her though. Her 'me' painted a picture of a vase Holding tulips and daisies, Broken to bits yet held together By some substance unfamiliar. I can't seem to comprehend How this vase stands on end 'Love,' she says, but it's only One of many four lettered words That fill the same space as 'vase' As my days went by, Meeting people who knew 'me' A choice needed to be made. Which one of the 'me's is me, And which one shall continue being me? The shell I am doesn't remember Holding a butterfly, a cat or a vase The person I am now Doesn't owe any of them a place Yet I wonder Would it be wrong of me If I chose one while forsaking the rest? It's always a little easier To trace over the lines already drawn By someone who knew better Should I be giving up A chance at a clean slate? A chance to let myself Be free like a bird not caged A chance to take a shape Any 'me' has yet to take I wouldn't know better After all, the only place I know Is this bed of white And the only person I know Is that lady in white
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Aug 30, 2024
Aug 30, 2024 at 10:56 AM UTC
Tell Me What to Do?
I don't hold any memories Nothing that tells me what I like Or that tells me what I was like For all I know The only place I do know Is this bed of white sheets Where I wake up each day Every day these past two weeks And the only person I know Is that lady in white Greeting me every morning with a smile If nothing else, this sight Has found its place in my mind She showed me someone Someone who claims to know me Someone who went to school with me I do not know him though His 'me' resembled a butterfly Flitting between the flowers in a garden Giving each the attention deserved Gracefully, without any reserve. An image that felt quite foreign To this husk that remains at present Another day, She showed me someone Someone who claims to know me Someone who shared my blood I do not know her though Her 'me' seemed like a wise cat Knowing when to pick a fight Knowing when to restrain its bite Knowing how far of an arm's length To keep itself away From being too involved or too little In any event of concern around it I should learn from such a cat, But I find it hard to believe I was that. Yet another day, She showed me someone Someone who claims to know me Someone who claims to love me And also claims to love me as I am I do not know her though. Her 'me' painted a picture of a vase Holding tulips and daisies, Broken to bits yet held together By some substance unfamiliar. I can't seem to comprehend How this vase stands on end 'Love,' she says, but it's only One of many four lettered words That fill the same space as 'vase' As my days went by, Meeting people who knew 'me' A choice needed to be made. Which one of the 'me's is me, And which one shall continue being me? The shell I am doesn't remember Holding a butterfly, a cat or a vase The person I am now Doesn't owe any of them a place Yet I wonder Would it be wrong of me If I chose one while forsaking the rest? It's always a little easier To trace over the lines already drawn By someone who knew better Should I be giving up A chance at a clean slate? A chance to let myself Be free like a bird not caged A chance to take a shape Any 'me' has yet to take I wouldn't know better After all, the only place I know Is this bed of white And the only person I know Is that lady in white
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78
I expel smoke into the atmosphere and think of all my ghosts this year. I fumble the deck in search of fives but still find the Jester half alive. I stumble through old alleys we used to go to, in search of songs. But I do nothing right but fill valleys with all of the right wrongs. I absorb oaked *** into my veins and felt hot tears in the rain. All those moments — lost in time the second you were no longer mine.
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Jun 7, 2023
Jun 7, 2023 at 2:15 AM UTC
Old Haunts
Memories plant the ability to look backwards on one’s reality So that they may change And realize what was worth the pain And what was only a mistake. Although wishing for amnesia Makes for a painful breakup song I doubt anyone would truly Wish for something so cruel. Self awareness revoked Just sitting in a chair Not even conscious While staring at whatever lies right in front Not understanding why people hug you And why they're crying Not understanding what Crying even is As the mumbles Incomprehensible Escape from chapped lips And dire eyes I wonder if you’d even know of your end.
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Feb 15, 2021
Feb 15, 2021 at 8:02 PM UTC
A Warning
I've forgotten more than most men know
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Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 8:35 AM UTC
The Gifted Amnesiac
The pendulum is a bull shark. The hour of the savior is a pregnant bride's swan dive into the water. The mighty mile is a figure 8 in the scoot of non slop socks across the bare linoleum. Blood and bright are the redness of the blanket. divine terror at one hart beat per hour. Finger nails green and black against a back drop of the brightest, bluest eyes you've ever seen; deep pools of liquid light that will shine when least expected. And the obligation isn't one at all, for when i breath in, you breath out. And when I gave consent 1000 years ago times 10- you performed the exorcism under the shroud of my amnesia and the spotted light from a crystal disco ball. Shards of light moved upon the face of all the space between the stars. My heart was in the highlands but now its in your hands.
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Oct 2, 2020
Oct 2, 2020 at 8:15 PM UTC
Monica Of the Light
I would tell me a joke but don't think I can laugh Do not wanna waste a punchline Open my mouth and hear my voice The words spoken aren't mine Syllables beyond recognition Fail to accurately recite The sentences arranged within Speech not coming out right Overlapping ideas in my brain Equal a blurry picture I guess depression plus memory loss Makes for a terrible mixture
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Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 2:41 AM UTC
Depression And Memory Loss
I got out of bed just to look at my alarm clock To see how long I'd slept in for I looked around my room for my glasses and hairbrush And found nothing but an open drawer To the left of me came a buzz, like a carpenter bee And a glow that shone on the spine-lined wall I wasn't expecting it to be you this early In fact, I wasn't expecting you at all Where did I see you last? How did we meet? What was your name behind that dim photograph? You didn't say anything, and you wouldn't answer me Am I wrong for forgetting? And is this so out of my control? Will You forgive me when I remember what I did? Or will the pulse of my memory forever lose it's hold?
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Aug 18, 2020
Aug 18, 2020 at 10:52 PM UTC
Who Are You?
I tried taking a trip down memory lane but it was closed to thru traffic So I called the department of transportation and they told me it was all in my head
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Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 10:04 PM UTC
Memory Lane
amnesia is an overthinkers biggest enemy and it strikes when everyone else is asleep so that the overthinkers are left alone with their thoughts their favorite songs with a pen and paper and 26 letters
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Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 5:00 PM UTC
amnesia
what if one day, i wont remember who you are? what if one moment will cause me, to forget all the memories we share? Will you take my hand? and try to understand? or will you let me go? if you do, just please let me know but i promise you, if you stay i'll remember it all again one day because i may forget who i was, but never who i loved... my heart won't forget you...
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Feb 15, 2020
Feb 15, 2020 at 8:35 AM UTC
forget you
Your were the feather,        me the flight beneath your wings. But we were never meant to soar,    people trying to shoot us down...                                    Your friends, her plumage isn't pretty enough..                                        My mates, well I saw him kissing another girl.. Funny that jealousy makes others          like a dodo.. unhappy that they                            cant fly higher than us. Because the days they said, like amnesia.             We were together handcuffed to each others fingers,                            never letting go. We resisted arrest ending up in the bedroom.                                              Feathers flew that night. You told me I was a masterpiece that only you could admire, and your friends were                                         jealous that I wasn't  open all hours...      No i only had private screening in my life for one. We flew higher than the stars, never shooting across,              no we just huddled in the darkness close.
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Feb 8, 2020
Feb 8, 2020 at 11:10 AM UTC
Physical Plume
Keeper of time Has lost his mind. He no longer ticks. He sighs. He questions. He swears a little. Does he know who he is? Not precisely. I tell him he's a law, a sage, a determiner. He's even the reason I get up in the morning. He says he'll get back to me. When? I ask. Ah, there's the rub...
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Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 6:02 PM UTC
The Clock with Amnesia
Add some number to my 10ne1iness, So when night comes, I have something to count on.
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Jan 22, 2020
Jan 22, 2020 at 1:54 AM UTC
lonely
An old photograph falls out of a folder, Like a silent leaf in autumn, so silent, That I wouldn't have noticed it, save for the glint of the paper, reflecting, the only lightbulb in my room. What does the photograph show? Is it a window to my soul? Is it the ghost of my past, a thousand regrets manifesting themselves like an apparition. I do not recognize the boy in the photograph, Memory doesn't serve me well anymore, Moments like these are a lifetime away, I have forgotten what it was like, this past life that doesn't exist anymore. Where is this place, the whitewashed pillars, the tin roof, the stone walls, the vast cedar trees. I remember faintly, voices, thoughts, emotions, that I have lived in the life gone past, come back to me. And yet, all is still unfamiliar.
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Dec 24, 2019
Dec 24, 2019 at 3:25 PM UTC
Photographs
i think every night tomorrow i'll be real and stop acting like a fool. i'll be my serious self, leave the sugar at the door. yet with the sun comes the amnesia "who am i?" those three precious seconds, then "oh no" i remember. i dread the day. the brushing of teeth drinking of water checking of phone eating of pasta i will never finish
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Nov 18, 2019
Nov 18, 2019 at 10:02 PM UTC
ok this is it