Repressed Memories

I searched the night sky for a familiar constellation of stars, hoping I could catch their orbit behind an opening in the clouds. But luck was not with me tonight. Instead, shadows projected their natural art onto the forest, leading to sparks of memories of my sisters and our shared life. The past felt empty, yet my mind continued sprouting up more scenarios. I struggled to breathe with this onslaught of my past. My brow got damp with sweat, and my head was in a swirl of sketch thoughts. It was all so ugly, worse than I remembered other times.

Old-Fashioned

when you live in a world
surrounded by nostalgic things
realize it was once progressive

you’ve come a long way, baby
farther than you’d ever thought
your adventure would go

you’re leaving behind a message
of where you have been
showing how far you’ve gone

The Taste Of Yesteryears

a smell, a sound or a ghost
pins us back in time
a duality in the timeline
one foot in reality
the other in the past

echoes of the familiar
trap us quite robustly
forcing a face-to-face
as harsh realities present
a reckoning of our actions

will we learn
or are we doomed
to repeat the recollections
over and over
in our unsatisfying dreams

Tracks To The Past

Inspired by Sadje’s What do you see #63 & The Sunday Whirl #489

when memories present
in the silence of my room
i check my expectations at the door
my spine gets comfortable
as i delve deep into the bank of the past
the risk of emotions is high
will my cheeks remain dry
i hear the clunk of metal gears
hobos sleeping in rail cars
their lives in a haze
while i play in the train yard
i wonder in my head where they are now

#Whatdoyousee

A Box Full Of Life

Untitled
Roman Kraft

Opening the lid to the past.

Joy, tears, and laughter escape.

Youthful feelings rushing back expectedly.

Playing in the past like it was yesterday.

Staying there is tempting,

in the good ‘ole days.

But were they really?

Boxed memories are nearly all good.

Who saves the crap?

Those moments slowly come back too.

Time to close the lid.

Back to reality.

Captured

Untitled

pxhere.com

Over and over, repeated re-injury of the senses.
It’s what we had.

Dressed in our despair, bonded by pain.
It’s what we shared.

We twisted and contorted, struggled further to gain control.
It’s how we fought.

Every prick of the conscience drained another abscess.
It’s how we learned.

Giving up was not an option.
It’s how we lived.