Poetry – …What life’s really like, Living in Dementialand.

I hear the toilet flushing,
As I sit in my chair
But I cannot remember,
Ever going in there.
Stood at the bus stop,
Looking around with a stare,
Not knowing or understanding,
How on earth I got there
I sit at my PC,
typing away,
But the words I have written,
Make no sense anyway.
The coffees in the fridge,
I don’t know how it got there,
The margarines in the oven
I didn’t put it in there.
Going to familiar places,
I don’t understand,
I fear that I find myself,
Alone in some foreign land.
Noise is an issue.
It just makes things worse,
Round and round in your head.
Acting just like a curse.
Those geometric patterns,
That are moving around,
They confuse and disorientate,
Without making a sound.
On a hot summers day,
When the heating is on,
It’s my brain that doesn’t recognise,
That it’s toasty and warm.
And on a cold winters day,
When I am sat in my shirt,
Don’t make any comment,
As those words they can hurt.
Your face should be familiar,
But I don’t recognise you,
It can be embarrassing to remind me,
That I should know you.
You may be my sister,
But I think you’re my Mum,
I’m not being cruel,
It’s just who I’ve become.
But I am still me,
But I am not the same,
To point out the changes,
Just leads me to shame.
I try to remember,
What I wanted to do,
But the thoughts they are lost,
In the fog that consumes.
Why do these things happen,
I keep asking myself,
They are never through choice,
Just the cards that are dealt.
My world it is changing,
But I am still me,
Who knows what tomorrow brings,
Or what it will turn out to be.
When people they question,
They don’t understand,
What life’s really like,
Living in Dementialand.
Copyright © Howard Gordon 2019


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