1
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
2
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
3
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.
mindlovemisery 