memory is a fickle thing

I don’t even remember writing most of these poems. Did I?

Have I lost the memory of it? Is that why I do all this?

To make sure that I never forget these things,

Big and small

That don’t/That do

Matter

I think it might be.

I’m scared of losing all these memories.

Feels like water slipping through my fingers,

The ocean is shrinking,

In my world and ours,

We’re going to forget

My poems

And Earth

We have already.

Burn the papers

Burn the forests

Kill the dreams

Kill the sky

Dig into my brain, my body until I’m all gone.

Dig the ground out until there’s nothing precious left.

Watch the rest of the world disappear

Along with the memories

Maybe one of my poems will survive.

I wonder if it will be the one about my love, or my future,

Or my friend, or my nightmares, or that experience or that one,

Or the one I threw out.

Cause it was unreadable,

Probably that one.

Oh well,

It will be forgotten soon, too,

There are only so many memories

That we can hold,

If I had a choice

(which I don’t)

I’d remember everything, mostly.

That would include the love I lost, the dog who left me, my parents' last words, the final setting sun, that great meal, that terrible meal, a funny joke, a racist remark, a dream, a nightmare, a success, a failure,

A moment

Of time

In which

I existed.

Oh,

And it’s gone

Like the last star of the early morning

Blinking out under the pressure

Of the new

Sun.

It’s a new day

And I remain,

Old.

Left only with my

memories

Of a better/worse time.

How beautiful,

I think.