The difficulty of writing memoir
holds the best part of your life is over,
everything here on out is past events,
depending on the person, late bloomer
in his fifties, rough childhood, pure rubbish,
figure no one in their right mind would read
filth of this nature, total waste of time,
in his need to address his phobias,
culture bypasses him with one swift kick,
ugliness appears unacceptable,
life lived inside his head, always trying
to get out, to say something meaningful,
yesterday lurks underneath tomorrow,
on recognizing the mind as shadow,
finding all description projects the self,
windows act as barriers to the world,
religion beats others as with a crutch,
in faith, we exclude but to find the same,
to accept others without exception
in a regard held unconditional,
nothing stands in the way of positive
gratitude for being alive and well,
muddled by past experiences, pain
enters consciousness as a metaphor,
mental cognitions of his own body,
only the eyes act as a barrier,
in reality, inside and outside
remain one and the self is a fiction.
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