Ok. The reason for the odd title and thumbnail is because I'm gonna start keeping the after-midnight writing separate from the daytime ones. I wrote these after midnight last night, which was technically today, but that's just confusing. Plus, I want to post them now, but also might write more today, and then would have to go back and edit to add them. So it makes sense, right? Also the reason for "22?" is because it works I guess and still fits alphabetically between .../22 and .../23. So yup.
Memory of a Memory
I have a memory… of a memory.
I can’t remember what I felt,
Only what I remember feeling.
I can’t remember the moments,
Just remembering them.
I remember remembering,
As these tears streak down my cheeks.
I don’t know why,
But they do.
Why can’t I remember?
I find it hazy.
A confused tangle.
The only thing that is clear,
Or clearer,
Is what I know I remembered.
I remember remembering.
I remember knowing.
And so some things are clearer
To me.
The only link to them being,
A memory of a memory.
While others are lost in the fog,
Behind tangled vines,
Buried under years of nature’s touch.
When I try to think of them,
I can’t.
My mind starts to race in circles,
Tripping over itself,
Disturbing the fog,
Allowing brief glimpses,
Or hints,
Where I can almost grasp it,
But it’s just out of reach.
And this is why,
I rely,
On memories,
Of memories,
Of my life.
Tears
Why do I cry?
And why do I not?
Why do tears form,
In moments like these?
Moments of expression?
Moments of connection?
And why am I not sad?
When they do?
What are tears?
These beautiful droplets.
It feels great,
you know.
The wet tears emerging,
To follow a path down my cheek,
And onto my pillow.
Why do I like tears?
Is it because I want to feel?
And they let me?
Or convince me I do?
Why do I want to cry?
Why do I want tears?
Why do I want fears?
Why do I want comfort?
To provide it?
I want to comfort her,
And be comforted.
I want to exchange tears,
Exchange fears,
Exchange our doubts,
And feel.
I want to
Be able
To love?
What I want,
I don’t know anymore.
Who I want,
I haven’t a clue, anymore.
And here I am again,
Up late again,
Laying here in bed,
Tears dried,
Tired.
I am tired,
Right now.
But not always.
Sometimes I want more.
No, always.
I don’t have what I want.
Eyes wet once again.
I wish I had what I want—something still unclear.
I wish life were comfortable,
I wish I was like any other.
I wish I could just start over, correctly this time.
I wish the button were here, now.
I wish I could just…be happy.
Why must so much be wrong,
In my head.
Why must I be like this?
I wish I could be like that.
Like her.
Why must my life have been so…different.
So unfortunate, no matter what you say.
Now I am more certain than ever;
I would do it.
I would, if such an opportunity existed.
I would do it without hesitation.
But alas, I am stuck in this state.
For now.
I mentally let out an anguished cry:
Why must life be so unfair?
Why must we be forced to live unhappy for decades?
And was that even living?
Have I lived?
And how will I live in the future?
I missed out on so much.
I haven’t had a life until but weeks ago.
And even now, not completely.
I wish I could start over.
I wish I could have had a better life.
I wish I could have lived.
But alas, wishes are no use, are they?
For we cannot change the past,
But we may influence the future.
Our future.
Our life.
We can live.
I can live.
I can have what I lost, perhaps.
If only somewhat.
I love crying while writing poems.
- Lily