Splatter Paintings
i am leaking
of my own accord
to relive every fucked up moment
a hundred lifetimes over,
and to pull them in the pit with me
so the gaping abyss isn't as lonely.
Poems on the topic: memory
Poems on the topic “memory” on Poets.by.
The Pea
every picture and note and smashed bottle cap
was thrown into a box hidden beneath my bed
behind shoes and blankets and laundry
so that i'd never have to look at it again
but i can feel it through my mattress
trying to seep back in my soul
so i think i'll shove some more crap under there
those sheets i meant to throw away
a rotting apple core
a notebook or two
and more and more and moreandmoreandmore
Out Of Reach
sunlight pours through the window and its bent blinds,
stabbing at my eyes until they're filled with swirls of red and orange.
the birds try their best to make blood pool from my ears.
No, I don't want to leave!
Please don't wake me up.
the world i've created, painstakingly crafted, dulls.
their voices are muddled as reality punches me in the gut.
What did they look like again?
a kaleidoscope dances behind my eyelids and
i pull the covers over my head.
We were at the beach. No, the park. And they were saying...
but then the dream disintegrates
and floats away in the wind.
it's all lost.
there's barely a footprint left to haunt my every memory.
"I had this dream earlier."
Bedeviled
it's sickening the hold you still have on me
when you're nothing but
a rotting corpse,
an empty sack of flesh,
decaying
in the dirt
beneath my feet.
yet i still find myself
trying to limit the mess my ashes make when i burn
trying to quiet my screams as i drown
trying to decide how much i can bleed before i stain the carpet
all because of the lessons i learned
from you.
it's sickening.
Resting Place
one way or another,
the world that haunts me
will bleed away.
Saudade
sitting alone in my bed, the fan blowing against my skin,
i remember
the rush of your breath
the pitter-patter of your heart
the soft silk of our shared blanket
but now its thread traces the ground, muddy and frayed,
as i brush through the wind
into the freezing river.
##Red##
I hadn't thought of you in weeks ,
maybe days. . .
Sometimes I forget , that I make myself forget about you
Until one day , you changed .
but everything stayed the same .
she brought you up today .
I don't think they knew
I was keeping a tally in my head .
counting how many days it would take to forget you .
or how long it would take for the ache in my heart to go away
so here I am ,
tears running down my face ,
reminding myself
you don't love me,
& what she said can't be true
because I thought I had just forgot about you .
soft
sometimes i wish I could erase our memories ,
other times I think they're the only reason why I'm still here
you used to make me wanna live , now you make me wanna die
because without you I could never feel alive
in my mind I wish I could forget
in my heart the memories are all I have left
THE SCENE
I remember all the silence in presence
I remember the scene, i never like the closure
I remember your eyes of insults ignored
I remember the abstract of cruelty
I remember when the missed speaks
I remember the irreplaceable victimize
I remember the dried commitments
I remember the aesthetic shadows
I remember love turns to dust
I remember when the skies cry
I remember the salt air
I remember your whispers that haunts me
I remember he is lost in the memory
I remember youre not mine like a wine
I remember back in December of colds
I remember in November of ghosts
Untitled Part 31
I forgot the feeling of happiness.
I forgot what joy feels like.
I forgot the image of true smiles
I forgot how to be me.
Domum
One day I was walking
And I discovered an abandoned house
It was an old house, to be sure,
Rotten and strewn about.
Inside this house there were pictures
Of those who inhabited it before
People of all ages
Their lives centered around this old eyesore.
From what I can tell, they were poor
But strangely enough
It seemed like they were happy
Despite it being so tough.
A makeshift swing hung in the yard
Worn from constant use
Despite years of exposure
Not a single string was loose
The Hill
Outside my house there is a hill
That I would often climb
And on this hill, throughout my life
I would find different ways to spend my time.
When I was young, it was for the adventure
For who didn't like a little fun
And I was a warrior, tried and true
There was never a battle I hadn't won.
As I got older, it was more to see the view
And sit in quiet contemplation
Or perhaps write a poem or paint
As it did give me inspiration.
But now I am truly old,
And I can barely climb this hill.
Sometimes it feels like it's not worth it;
Each time I try, I'm met with a chill.
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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