The Dangers

Do we admit Nostalgia’s dangerous?

Can memory be trusted in this sense?

Is present just a past to plagiarize?

Can I remember all that’s let me hence?

Was I present for each cup of coffee?

Did I mean each time I said “I love you?”

Each poem written came so easily;

They came to me as I was above you.

Even the most perceptive among us

Will only remember what he wants to

Placing his complete and absolute trust

An organ like the brain is never true

So when you think on how things used to be

Remember this:  Forget it, and be free.

This entry was published on September 16, 2012 at 07:45. It’s filed under Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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