To remember is such a strange concept
I can't remember being born or being three years old,
But I remember when my brother painted on my clothes
At five years old.
I don't remember my fifth birthday,
But I remember reading Harry Potter for the first time
And thinking that this was the best thing since chocolate,
When I was seven years old.
I don't remember being liked at my elementary school,
But I remember the names and faces of bullies,
At nine years old.
I don't remember the arts and crafts that I did,
But I remember loving my teacher, Ms Smith,
At ten years old.
I don't remember the faces of my friends who moved away,
But I remember my great grandma's face who died,
At eleven years old.
It's a pick and choose game;
You try to remember the good,
And never the bad.
So then,
Why is my head full of bad memories?
Only of hatred, and death, and pain?
Why do I remember the time my brother called me
"Faggot! Go Kill Yourself!"
But not what the taste of my first ice cream was?
Why do I remember standing in a black dress near a casket,
Jesus Christ in stained glass,
But not the feeling of using hair dye for the first time?
Or meeting my best friend,
Or going to a new school,
Or meeting new people,
Or,
Or,
Or.
Why do I remember such bad things
When all I want is to be
Happy?
YOU ARE READING
Poems That I Form
PoetryI write poems that are me, Or rather what is in my head. It may be prose, Ponders, Sadness and grief; But who expected happy poetry anyways? If you wish not to see a crying girl, Then you're reading the wrong book. If you wish not to see the terror...
