i knew it,
it was just on the tip of my tongue,
it was just there,
and i let it slip.
why do i always trip?
i thought i had a tight grip,
i was holding on so hard just to let it slip..
why does my mind always drip..
fall apart and rip.
fall and fly away like they were to slippery to grip.
like my memory has a slit,
like it all just falls through my grip,
like a dirty old trick.
what must I do, who must worship,
just to keep my memories from going on a trip?
YOU ARE READING
Poems of a mended artist.
Poesíathis will be a part two to my other set of poems. please read them but they are not needed to understand these. These will be much sadder than my original ones usually.
