I like my memories shaken, not stirred.
Shaken so hard over the years
poured over jagged rocks
filled to overflowing
garnished with pretties
a shaky hand spills
just a little
lost just a fraction of an ounce
you wouldn't miss that splash
if it weren't for the stain
the stain that won't wash out
won't come clean
the truth is a lie
the ugly wears handmedown rose colored glasses
transforming pain with it's frothy pink layers of pretend
Memories don't have to make sense.
Stories are used to soothe
to quiet the tears
to lull back to sleep
just gulp it all down
and let the haze overtake.
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