Memory Martini

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.

Posted in art