It’s been so long now
I can’t remember what’s real
And what I made up
Is that scene playing back in my mind
My own
Or some movie
I saw
Years ago
I can feel my memory
Slipping
Between trembling fingers
To settle on my
Unswept floor
Trapped behind a wall
I sometimes think
Is made purely of glass
But it doesn’t
Take long
To realize it’s
A mirror
Looking back at me
And mocking that my mind
Is no longer my own
Simple things
Building up
To bury me
Regret
And embarrassment
I want to cry out
It’s not me It’s not me
But I can’t help the creeping
Deep-down fear that it
Is me
That I am
In some strange
And unconscious way
Repressing myself
Out of hate or guilt or selfishness
I wonder
Sickly
If there isn’t just
An error
In my code
Letting memory and data
Pour from my mind
Endlessly
And even now
My words escape me
And truly
Truly
I am afraid
I’ll forget
Just who exactly am I?
YOU ARE READING
dogwood drought
Poesiacollection of my "poetry" might not be the most accurate description but I dont really know what else to call this mess. enjoy
