I don’t often write,
Or should I say type.

But when I do,
Parodies come through.

Because it’s never the same,
Reliving memories is like a game.

Ebbing in… Ebbing out,
Words are now full of doubt,

Did that happen? Did it really?
I thought I would remember so clearly.

What I wanted to convey,
Was once bright as day.

You see that’s why I don’t often write.
Or type. Or fight to put words into light.
Because words unlike real memories – don’t have the same might.