My Memories Live

Slinking into live memories,
They say, “This is who you are,”
I know memories aren't perfect,
But they make me hate the world
I lie in tumult, and I fight to break my face,
To smile

Usually they are pictures that were never
Of love, but war and lies and of a losing battle,
Retreating as I come down to reality once more

Slipping into dark parts of dreary hearts
Is not weighing less than a star; I neglect
To reveal a “shameful life,” according to the
Plush and rosy picture of a stained white lie
So, my memories are hushing my disbelief,
For now

Why do we remember? To forget and to invent?
Is attacking my thoughts the only real altruistic
Reaction to a son of a b*st*rd, and to a friend of weakness?
Consider my neurons snapping the strict, deadening beat of
My heart, flaring and burning,
Yearning for… nothing,
I know not who I am, and
So, my memories live