Prena Poetry

It is always the memories that brings out the worst of me. Always the happy memories that can no longer make me feel like i am a human for once and i too should live and love like a human. I watch people my age relentlessly walk with the crowd; defending their attribution and posing with their shoulder stiff and proud. I watch them drink coffee at their best friend’s house and pretend to like the neighbour’s mean old cat. I watch them bloom every once in a while as they climb up their mountain of doubts and insecurities. While i am succumbing in this oversized sweater i choose to wear. I take out a book and a pencil and write stories about people like me; only as i begin with a paragraph i can no longer remember who i am. My heart beat feels odd. There is a dozen of incomplete stories residing in the book that i will soon forget where i even kept it. I have a bad memory. But then, i wish it was even worse enough to forget the ghost of those people who once decided to love me, only to realize after a month that i was selfish and arrogant and too impatient. I know, I am no longer the person i used to be yet I still find myself looking for something in the past i once lived.