Memory Lane: Days of Poetry



I was once a poet.

I’ll allow you to get all those delightful laughs out of your belly! Are you done? I’d like to continue. Thank you.

Yes! I once was a poet. Many years ago I delved into the habit of expressing my feelings through symbolic sentences.

I wrote pages and pages of wordy expression. When I’m in the mood to embarrass myself, I crack open that binder and inject a dose of humiliation up my snooty veins. That binder always has a way of paddling my ass into shape. Ouch.

Some of the “poems” I wrote are simply too dreadful to remember.

That’s why they’re locked away in a dust smothered binder. Some poems are pages long, no stanzas, no structure—just emotions run wild. The unfiltered unconscious tends to work that way. The voice of our feelings doesn’t speak with a direct purpose.

As I grew older my poetry became shorter. And shorter. And shorter, to the point where it’s infintismily nonexistent.

Are these poems any good? Sure, if I run out of toilet paper, these poems will come in handy. In other words: no, these poems are rather shitty.

I’m embarrassed that I even wrote them. That’s how bad they are. They should probably be burned. The only reason why I put up with their existence is for nostalgia. Anytime I want to take a trip down memory lane, I could always crack open that binder (and regret doing so later).

What? I see you looking at me like that.

You want to read this so-called “poetry”, don’t you? I can’t talk the talk without walking the walkright? I don’t know. I knew this was going to end up happening before I started writing this post. I figured I would have some way to skate around the subject…

Obviously that’s not going to happen.

Listen: I’ll go ahead and share some poetry—you have to promise not to point your finger and laugh at me.


Memory Case

Locked on paper,

My Past, future, mind, heart,

Keeper of words,

Keeper of memory,

Words trapped,

The only thing that knows me,

Only thing that can’t speak,

It can bring a smile, a tear…

It gives me my memory,

For this is my memory case.


Well? What do you think? Very deep, I know. Very fitting that I share this poem first, I believe my memory case might be my binder (if I remember correctly). Makes sense, right?


Living Sight

Imagination can bring it.

My eyes can’t see it.

Words echo.

Words said.

Imagination can bring it.

My eyes are closed.

This world of ours is a living sight.

Hours in the past,

Hours in the future,

Imagination will realize it,

My eyes can’t see it.

This hour I’m in, is just a living sight.

Hours gone.

Imagination gone.

Eyes taking the dark road,

A road somewhere…

Imagination can’t see it.


I’m not going to lie: I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. The context of this poem has been lost. I don’t remember writing most of what I’m sharingand I can live with that.



I’m not a happy kid,

Born with a frown, born to drown.


Here’s an example of one of my short poems. I must have written this toward the end of my formal poetry days. The only way I can estimate the age of these poems is by how they are written. Nothing is dated, very convenient, I know.

Well? What do you think? Don’t look at me like that! There’s only so much embarrassmentfine, alright—you win. I’ll share more poetry.


Published by FlyTrapMan

I have no idea what I'm doing.

4 thoughts on “Memory Lane: Days of Poetry

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