Perceptions

I don't know if I trust my memories of you,
with each recollection they're rewritten.
Am I a slave to a perception of supposed perfection?
I have you painted in water colors,
faded and picturesque,
framed in what could be unhealthy
obsession to recreate you
in every moment.
A memory of a memory of you
has too much potential to ruin me.
As a result,
I can't trust me.
And, by association,
I don't think I can trust you.
Please,
(Stand still.)
I need to remember you
exactly as you are.

My voice has run out...

every noise is a cacophony
of broken chords
and off-beat melodies
with absolutely no cadence.
I’m just trying to string words together
in run-on sentences.
You’ll find no rhymes
in my work
because nine out of ten times
I’d end up writing about a hotel desk clerk
just to keep up the A-B-A-B rhyme scheme
and conform to this idea of poetry.
With each new line I lose the theme,
twisting it from what it could be.

Forgive me for the digression
my writing is
a stream of consciousness
that runs through my mind
divorcing imagination and reality
but who can really tell the difference anymore?
Flowing like a babbling brook
my hands can’t keep up with the words
as the current brings them through
English Dam, containing all
un-translated thoughts.
With each second new memories are formed,
facts collected and recollected,
and my brain is in overdrive.

Trying to write in time with the pulse of creativity
ideas fade with each passing minute,
and my voice cracks under the exhaustion
of completing every important thought
that eventually fall on deaf ears.
Until each unheard story – each best kept secret –
is relayed between pen and paper,
punctuated by silence.