"forgetfulness" poems
my love
thy hair is one kingdom
the king whereof is darkness
thy forehead is a flight of flowers
thy head is a quick forest
filled with sleeping birds
thy ******* are swarms of white bees
upon the bough of thy body
thy body to me is April
in whose armpits is the approach of spring
thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot
of kings
they are the striking of a good minstrel
between them is always a pleasant song
my love
thy head is a casket
of the cool jewel of thy mind
the hair of thy head is one warrior
innocent of defeat
thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army
with victory and with trumpets
thy legs are the trees of dreaming
whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness
thy lips are satraps in scarlet
in whose kiss is the combinings of kings
thy wrists
are holy
which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood
thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases
of silver
in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes
thy eyes are the betrayal
of bells comprehended through incense
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It’s just easy for them
Isn’t it?
This couple on the train.
They walked on laughing together
Holding hands
And I felt that familiar something-
Not jealousy
Not envy
But...
Chagrin.
Astonishment.
Incredulity.
Incomprehension.
Looking at them feels like looking at one of those
Impossible pictures
Where the stairs keep going forever in a loop.
It’s just
Easy for them.
It doesn’t hurt anymore, that thought,
But thinking it feels so odd in my mind
When I can’t imagine loving someone without
Shame,
Without pain.
They fit.
These people,
They fit without having to carve anything out.
They fit without punishing each other.
They fit like puzzle pieces cut from the same board-
No worries, they just go together, and that
Is that.
They fit like
“Of course.”
Like breathing.
Neatly.
Simply.
Carelessly.
I can’t imagine what it’s like
I can’t comprehend it-
To fit
Somewhere
Much less to fit somewhere
With someone.
I am always trying to corset myself into this world,
Lungs burning,
Trying to remain small enough to squeeze by
Catching myself by the wrist to keep from reaching
For anything.
And if there seems to be a spot where I might be able to exist as I am
It is always
Occupied.
Like a shiny pinprick
That thought hurts-
Not like the others it is newly cut
And still ******
The idea that maybe there is a home for me
And that maybe I was too late for it.
They’re laughing.
He says something clever,
Passes a hand along the small of her back
And she leans into it,
Smiling because she loves that he wants to touch her innocently.
They seem to exist behind glass.
Not for the first time I wonder
If I could just slip into that life
Like a drop into an ocean
I want it badly
I want it stupidly
And I examine all the parts of myself,
All the edges and cracks,
All the things I’ve worked so hard to protect and repair.
It is not a welcome sight-
I am not a home
I am like an old ruin
Full of murmurings and cold spots
Full of dusty sunlight.
I sigh,
Knowing the secret I keep so poorly-
That if I really had a choice to be otherwise
I would have already made it.
I couldn’t reach them if I ran for a thousand years,
They are too far away.
They walk off the train, arms linked
Talking about nothing
And I watch them go
Like a hallucination,
Like a mirage in the desert.
Her perfume smells like forgetfulness
And it lingers.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 12:48 AM UTC
A smile fell in the grass.
Irretrievable!
And how will your night dances
Lose themselves. In mathematics?
Such pure leaps and spirals ----
Surely they travel
The world forever, I shall not entirely
Sit emptied of beauties, the gift
Of your small breath, the drenched grass
Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies.
Their flesh bears no relation.
Cold folds of ego, the calla,
And the tiger, embellishing itself ----
Spots, and a spread of hot petals.
The comets
Have such a space to cross,
Such coldness, forgetfulness.
So your gestures flake off ----
Warm and human, then their pink light
Bleeding and peeling
Through the black amnesias of heaven.
Why am I given
These lamps, these planets
Falling like blessings, like flakes
Six sided, white
On my eyes, my lips, my hair
Touching and melting.
Nowhere.
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With my bobby pin, taken from my hair after volleyball practice,
I scrape black resin from a blue bowl
It's a rougher
Dirtier
Hash ball
But it loves on your brain just as much
And my arms are bruised from passing
They could use that numbing forgetfulness
That lurks like stupidity
In the back of my brain
Always
The *** just emphasizes it
The way gaudy clothes do on a pretty girl
That's me too sometimes
But I have a mother,
Just as you,
And she gave me dreamss
To live up to
A school of science and engineering
So...what do you do?
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
I have a disability
Because it is lack of memory
Others refuse to accept it is
The way my mind shall be
After testing my memory
The PhD of Neuropsychology
Agreed that I suffer with
Cognitive impairment, MCI
My forgetfulness is here to stay
With me until I die
Yes, I can exercise my brain
It may help a bit, still I will forget
So just accept it!! PLEASE QUIT
Telling me to exercise my brain
I know my limitations best, oh Yes!
Everyone telling me to try to remember is really what
Drives me insane!!!
I have tried my hardest everyday
For years I have been fooling You
All in so many ways!
Now the truth has escaped
It is a relief, I must say
I am so tired of playing
The main role on the stage
Every single day!!
Please, all of you quit telling me
To exercise my memory
If this was happening to you,
God forbid, then perhaps you
Would understand me when I say
I am tired, oh so tired, of striving
for just an ounce of memory
Day after day!!!!
So again I say
Please, just let me be Me!
The Ole' lady with memory disability
THIS IS ME, ₩€ND¥°•°°•°•°°•°•°°•°•°°•°•°
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
i am seven and in your living room
with antiques & photographs
of family that are more like strangers
and handshakes at christmas
there is a jar of circus peanuts by the armchair
and i remember being told that these are here because they are never out of stock
and that *they are the only things
children will not want to take from me*
i still do not like the color orange.
i am eight and round the bannister
to an upstairs that reminds me
of heaven in that
place i can't go sort of way & i am
knuckle deep in your pumpkin pie
wiping it on my uncles suede jacket
our hands still shake but the jury is still out
on if he looks at me and napkins the same
i hope you do not sleep
with my apologies under your fingernails
i will not say them out loud
i know i should have mowed your lawn
i should have been a home
for second hand smoke
if i could go back i would be your ashtray
i remember the day you forgot who i was
i bound into the room and throw my arms
around you like an armistice
and you ask who i am
we are not in church
but everyone stops singing
i am passed from child to child
while we all laugh
but my lungs feel like
they've been mugged in an ally
who's son does he look like, mom?
my father says like gospel
you pull on your cigarette
sip from your watered down wine and shrug
and i am neck deep in forgetfulness
i imagine alzheimer's
as being born again every day
so, we will spend ages
looking at captions to photographs
telling your stories to strangers
as my father begins to forget
and when i imagine probate
an unfamiliar hand unfolding a will
to be read to wayward angels
i want to burn down the house
and sleep in the ashes
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
In the silence of a day like today
In the wake of yesterday's dreams
Forgetfulness feels like noncompliance
In a world where defiance still seems
Like a benign inaction of innocence
Though it feels like a stabbing of spite
Willing to kneel to your Goddess
Yet unable to yeild to Her might
There is no weakness to worship at Her altar
It takes strength to relinquish control
Relax and trust in the knowledge
Acquiesce and watch it unfold
There is freedom in the smile of an angel
There is love to be had all around
There is power in making Her smile
Don't be the sadness beind every frown
Inaction, as innocent as it seems
Breeds disappointment that infects every smile
And all those little requests
Will stop being wanted after awhile
See, for all the deeds left unfinished
And all those tiny tasks left undone
Will chisel away Her hearts desire
Leaving Her another invisible no one
An empty shell of a Goddess
Whose glory, in your heart will remain
While She curses her very existence
Languishing in true-love's refrain
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
*They say forgive and forget
But don't you ever forget*
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC
In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the stars.
Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In the graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.
Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams to not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulers.
On day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the eyes of cows.
Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention of the bridge,
or that dead man who possess now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes are waiting,
where the bear's teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.
Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.
No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the night,
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theatres.
9.3k
Water nymph, you are the gentle wind
Bursting the daisy, your eyes, are bells
Of blue echinacea spiriting the light—
Echoing sound which water makes, ring
The laureled forest leaves in cathedrals
Newly sprung of pews, meadows, spark,
The dance of bees, who trace your honey
Scent in combs of ambrosia and sunshine.
The miraculous waters are floored under
Your white, lily petals of feet, your nests
Of hair are embracing tendrils of the wild
Grape, wine and sweet, long forgetfulness.
Maid of the wood, daughter to the moon;
Are you of Elysium or temptress of doom?
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 8:30 PM UTC
Your face,
Tender, round and dimpled,
Framed with gilded, carved, tawny curled
Whirlpools of hair, long, lighted, and sparkling,
Your face is the face—
Of Ireland.
Your lips,
Full, moist and deathly deep,
Are wells, not well for me, not safe, taboo,
Tantric, tall told tales of brave Odysseus
Under Circe's alchemies
Of forgetfulness.
Your *****
The zenith of blossom in fabled
Elysium, gateway to the forbidden gardens
Of sage and sinners, warrior-poets, Aphrodite's
Envy, Poseidon's drowning
And smoldering Zeus.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC
I'm considering rebuilding
A wall I levelled;
I've no shortage of materials,
But I lack
The man power,
And the willingness,
To rebuild this wall
Of unforgiveness,
On a foundation
Of forgetfulness.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 9:30 AM UTC
A vacant room of dark spaces,
where furniture once lay
An empty lot of trash and cracked concrete
Where weeds take root with hopes of becoming trees
And cobwebs span for miles
Worn wind chimes still glisten in sun
Papers of bad handwriting fly with the wind
This place left unoccupied for so much time
Small lives make home in the walls,
While this home settles further beneath dirt
This place reminds me of our forgetfulness, our need to not rebuild
As a place turns old we leave it behind,
never to fix again,
never to feel loved again
Weeping floorboards
Walls crying tears of yellow paint
Roof caving in feeling hollow
Abandoned places
Forgotten
Always forgotten
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
I sigh at day-dawn, and I sigh
When the dull day is passing by.
I sigh at evening, and again
I sigh when night brings sleep to men.
Oh! it were far better to die
Than thus forever mourn and sigh,
And in death's dreamless sleep to be
Unconscious that none weep for me;
Eased from my weight of heaviness,
Forgetful of forgetfulness,
Resting from care and pain and sorrow
Thro' the long night that knows no morrow;
Living unloved, to die unknown,
Unwept, untended, and alone.
7.2k
5 a.m motorcycle
where you headed to
through the endless darkness
of the empty suburbs
yours is the night to have & to hold
sleepless & free
stirring up the wind
yet lonely
so lonely
I can feel it
whatcha lookin' for,
lil' Brother
not yours the comfort
of dreams & forgetfulness
(nor mine)
riding through the night
just killing time
in the empty suburbs
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
How many
More creative
Ways can I say
I wanna die.
I hear they're
Gonna
Go to
Mars.
While I moulder
In my filth,
Ferment in
My forgetfulness.
And God
Says,
Put in more
Work
Slave.
And,
I do.
But I've gone
Past redemption
Got stuck
In retribution.
And all of this
Torment
Would end.
If I could only
Just disappear
Into
The epilogue
Of an
Obituary.
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 3:08 PM UTC
Indulge me for I'm sat looking at a scarf
As I transport rather splendid G and T
To its final destination
Not mine I hasten to add, my scarf that is not the gin
Purple not my colour you see
I had issue with burgundy as a child, frightful memories
I digress but it was left behind like a signature
Not intentionally just in a sweet forgetfulness
I can't pick it up, crazy as it sounds
I mean if I did it would be real not imagery
The moment lost, but no real moment as I can't feel it
Do you understand ? Perhaps not
I have admittedly been reminded of its presence
I imagine it's scent, no I imagine her scent
Her presence in the room, her smile lifts me
I mean it's just a scarf I mean it can't exist can it?
Do we leave a little of ourselves behind?
Emotion like lost property
I don't know, I honestly don't
Is there a course for metaphysical disorientation and the re repatriation of lost purple scarfs?
I guess not. I'd probably fail in any case.
It will still be here tomorrow. In plain sight, just hidden from my reality
Goodnight scarf.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
how many paths, how many loves
living and changing and ever climbing
learning and growing and springing over
like purple sunsets entering red mountains
each experience reopening your eyes, gaining
wisdom and freedom, ever increasing strength
Atlas holding Gaia, never ending strength
becoming charged and overcome with love
encircled with history and caring, gaining
a repertoire of eternal connections, climbing
into dream fields surrounded by mountains
will this serenity ever be over?
though hopefully the uncertainty will be over
and that we will have strength
to conquer all the encountered mountains
created by each newly attained love
embrace avenues crossed and obstacles climbed
to have pleasure and confidence gained
though will paradise ever be gained
allowing forgetfulness of pain we're over
while still remembering friendships we climbed
every node you pass gives strength
for the next stage of love
giving elemental power to move mountains
our past shadows creating fresh mountains
to relive, to adore; understanding gained
so many different forms of love
meaningfully distinct, passed but never over,
each one providing new wonderful strength
to allow us unique nirvanas climbed
always strive for larger heights climbed
those hopes will be worth mountains
don't fear any loss of strength,
weakness endured is often willpower gained
hate and sorrow should never over-
come the treasureful bliss of love
*Don't be afraid of the climb to the top of the mountain
unbelievable strength will be gained,
all the adventures that are over will become unforgettable love*
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
Would a blue ballpen without ink just lie
To die, like the children of our past needs,
The mouths of their thinning souls leeching
Our piety, our profanity, our tendency to build society
Off faces and masks,
Individual fragments of ourselves.
Would one give a thousand pesos to he who smears
Windshields with soap to take a few coins hostage
Or to she who exhibits a gaunt infant, an offspring
Of want, not wanted, the wear and tear of a rough
World manifest on emaciating juvenile skin. Would one
Give a thousand?
Would one commit a kiss?
When mere change can buy a pen with its full blood,
What then is the worth of the bleeding, the bearded
Blind on the somber sidewalks of forgetfulness where
Without ink, it ceases to be blue, and unable to write,
He has no need for a pen.
The world is writing his story,
He is only there to punctuate with his blood.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
She fell and broke her hip
Though that’s not what killed her
No, she fought long and hard to keep her sanity
A matriarch, the last matriarch
She never stood a chance
Through bouts of forgetfulness
She cringed as she sat
Wheelchair bound
Rolling with a fool’s smile
Talking nonsense like Nero must have
Playing his fiddle
Our family burned up but she never knew
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
my arms remember razor blades and spiked needles
and my veins ache to feel the warmth of her
swimming perfectly through my bloodstream
and engulfing my every fear, my every desire
until i am nothing but a pool of sticky tar
my nostrils burn without the powder
flying into my brain, and dripping down my throat
keeping me awake for days on end
and opening up my mind for my pen
shaking as i hold it to the paper; scribble
my tongue dwells on the bitter taste of hallucinogens
that made me dance in the coldest rain
and swim in the smallest pools of warm blood
that erupted from the belly of an orange tiger
who held my hand, and danced to the beats
my stomach remembers the feeling of pill bottles
emptied out; the tablets dissolved
coaxing me into warm slumbers, and forgetfulness
i miss the feeling of letting go
of love, of pain, of regret
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
Teach me, if thou can-forgetfulness!
Teach me how to forget thee, for I ain't
worthy of these feelings. I am undeserving of
thy love-for I can only dwell in and cherish it-
I cannot give thee yon pleasure, my love. Pleasure-
and its affectionate satisfaction-t'ose two-o but
amusements, the ones whom thou so dearly adore-
are but a sin to me, a sin so brief and beautiful
but even more ungrateful then the unblinking
foliage-into which I am unwilling to sink. Aye,
forgetfulness shall be a mercy to me. For in
such idiocy have I dreamed-dreamed of being
in thy lovely arms, absorbed in the mist of thy
charms. But I can never be so! Even dreaming
shall I be refrained from-I can never hug
thee-even in my deepest tempestuous fears.
Thou are t'at bizarre light that roam the stones
of my pernicious dreams. But Thou despiseth me-
how thou hate me, thou who shall never glance back
in my last breath, thou who but condemn me-I,
should t'is world be altered, shall still remain
thy sudden wound; I am but a flawed work of
insulting wretchedness. Then teach me-
teach me, my love, invade my heart-and grasp
my veins, rob my of my dearly, dearly affection-
for thee, yes, which was born only for thee-
and leave me loveless, just as no-one flatters me
and endorse my feelings, in t'is very loneliness.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
He was the epitome of a loveless boy, and he knew it. In fact, that was what kept him restlessly awake most nights, especially on this particular evening. He glanced down at the dark mess of hair that was laid across his chest and listened to the soft emission of peaceful breathing slipping from the lips of the girl whose name he did not remember. For a second, he debated on searching the dark corners of his mind in an attempt to remember it, but he soon realized he never even bothered to ask. This disappointed him for one reason - it was another question mark that he had to add to the list of names that he kept pinned to the front of his brain. At the thought of this particular list, he felt sick, as though an ounce of regret had seeped into his stomach and spread like an infection and now threatened to rise like bile. He knew he needed to keep it down, so he leaned over his bed and wrapped his fingers around the neck of the glass bottle he kept hidden in the bed springs. He sat back up and slowly unscrewed the cap, his eyes mesmerized by the amber liquid that swirled around the bottom half like a whirlpool of gold. He brought the top to his lips and tipped it back, filling his mouth with the warmth of forgetfulness and feeling as it burned his throat like fire the entire way down. It instantly washed him clean of every bad memory he had done his best to forget for the past week. Every tear that every girl had shed on their knees in front of him, begging him to love them; every cigarette that he had chain-smoked on the rooftop of his apartment building in an effort to cloud these very memories (unsuccessfully); every streetlamp that he had found solace in as he walked the streets mindlessly at three am, searching for answers that never came to him. He closed his eyes and imagined the whiskey rising inside of him until it leaked into his lungs and filled them, drowning him. He held his breath, pondering how long it would take for him to go lifeless in this position. But the sudden stop in the rise and fall of his chest caused the female lying on it to stir in her sleep, draping her arm around him and pulling him even closer. He felt sick again so he took another sip. He knew that when he looked back on this evening, he wouldn't remember it, which was becoming a classic move on his part. In fact, his life had become nothing more than disconnected nights with nameless and faceless females and fire whiskey that filled all the empty space within him. And he wasn't sure how that had come to be, but he no longer cared enough to even attempt to figure it out.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
O Sleep, O gentle sleep,
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weight my eyelids down
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?...
O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch
A watch-case or a common 'larum-bell?...
Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose?
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
Thought is finding its shape,
Becoming stronger¹,
And word by word,
Layer upon layer,
Self-erasing,
Taking form².
The mind is a collage
Creating itself from cut-up scraps¹;
It is a sculpture built by a flowing
Fountain of sand,
Both constantly being eroded
And being formed
And grown by the erosion²,
The sculpting fingers of erosion¹,
The sculpted shadows of forgetfulness².
Grains of memory
Beneath the fingernails¹,
They fall, they forget;
One remains².
Mar 22, 2022
Mar 22, 2022 at 6:12 PM UTC