Amnesiac (3 little poems)



Poised at the left hand margin

I draw bolts of divergent flesh together

Praying that the stitches will hold

For there is a reality that stands

Perilously close to departure


There is a feral child cached

In the paper thin walls

Of my unreceptive womb

I do not know her name

But her screams echo now

As always within my heart


For an amnesiac

Writing what you know

Can be achieved only

Through immaculate conception


The best writers are often said to write from personal experience but what if you couldn’t remember the events or the people around which those experiences are molded? I suffer from various forms of Epilepsy induced amnesia. Unlike many writers I simply can’t sit down and recount my life in vivid detail. My memories from yesterday have the same vague dream like quality as those from childhood. I have heart and abstraction but lack the concrete details. Often I have to take my raw emotions and put them into fictional or semi fictional pieces because quite frankly I just can’t remember my life well enough. Writing has helped me to know myself. So rather than write what I know I write to discover.