Intentional Amnesia – Matthew D Eayre

I keep having dreams with a recurring theme, different places and situations but one thing is the same
I’m sitting with my sister, the one that died 19 months ago, and I’m telling her how sad I’ve been about my sister dying.
She tells me things like,
she’s still with you
you’ll never really lose her
and all the while, we skip right past the part where I’m discussing the death of my sister, with my dead sister,
we never talk about the fact that my sister is sitting with me and holding my arm and comforting me while I’m crying about her dying

Once we were in a house that felt like home, even though I didn’t recognize it, and she sat next to me and rested her head on my shoulder while all of my deceased friends and family members walked by and smiled at us
I’m not a religious person but I am fond of symbols and symmetrical concepts
One time we were at a jungle resort and my dead sister was talking to my dead grandmother while they sat on either side of me, each holding my hand

I’ve tried so hard to let go of all of my selfishness, but the weight of these metaphorical chains has been fused to my imaginary bones

I don’t need a $400 an hour therapist to hold my hand and walk me across the street to the realization that survivor’s guilt is truly a matter of selfishness
I wanted them to be alive, for me
Loving someone, or a lot of people, comes with a sense of permanence, but nothing could stray farther from reality
We have our moments, we have our days and sometimes we have our years, but the cold hard truth is that life is not permanent, not one of the people you love will be around forever, you and all the people you know will pass from this dream like a snowflake falling in Houston

I have a deeply embedded program in my mind that reminds me constantly that I’m sad about the days gone by, my favorite dead people ended on that day, and that day, and that day and the calendar is littered with morbid anniversaries and I count from one to the next like some demented accountant, a scribe recording the passage of time measured in unresolved guilt and I can’t seem to sleep without sixteen dead people visiting me

I’ve been told that you only die once and that certainly feels accurate but I can tell you without any doubt that after you die the people that love you,
If they’re like me,
Will feel like you died every damn day
They’ll walk around their lives and they’ll pretend to heal and they’ll even find new ways to laugh and enjoy life but every time they dream of their sister or mother or nephew or brother telling them
Assuring them in a dream-like fashion that they still exist, that love hasn’t ever died and never will
Every time your people wake up after you die, you will have died all over again.
Every day will be spent choosing to push aside the memories of your funeral or the unspoken words that will not reach your ears

Your people will choose to forget, while they’re awake

They say that they’re choosing to focus on the here-and-now, trying to live for what is coming, trying to let go and let God, trying to adapt to the new reality

But if they’re like me

They’ll be lying
They’ll be dying your death in their head every time ‘that’ song comes on
They’ll be wishing for a brain injury that causes permanent amnesia, just to get to a life that doesn’t feel like death
They’ll be trying to move forward with both hands and feet tied to the anchors of yesterday’s ships

If they’re like me

[Matthew D Eayre is newly planted in Houston, Texas and hoping to grow roots. A lifelong lover of words and language, he writes every chance he gets when not delivering smiles or spending time with his loving wife and family. Matthew has only one rule in life and in writing; it has to be real. He writes from personal experience about life, love and loss. He bridges the light spectrum from darkness to light, hoping that somewhere out there he reaches those who need to be reached. You can find more of his brilliant work on his site and his Facebook page Poetry of Monsters ]

Subjective – Matt Eayre


These words have no meaning.

A metaphor, perhaps,

an impending ice age covering the landscape while I run from the freeze.

A turn of phrase, it could be, I never wanted anything to stop my destruction, and she jumped on the grenade to save me.

A rhyme, to mark the time, the wind brings me a smile,

Thinking of you drinking in that happy place about a mile

Away from my hands, you can stand on your own and

Find a new home while I wither alone and drink my lonely tears,

I’m stuck in my fear and will be for years…

These words have no meaning, when they sit on your screen, on your printed page you read them and translate into images of your own experience

My life is my own and when I write I feel a release of captured agony,

Does it reach you?

This man is getting old, trying to find a way to keep being

I’ve found a medication that works

Strange eyes see my heart and pass judgement,

this is poetry,

this is not

this is good enough,

this is crap

you’re a good writer,

you’re a poet

you’re an imposter

and you know you don’t belong

These words have no meaning

Here I sit, a survivor of countless attempts on my life

(by my own hand)

Here I sit, a remnant of innocence twisted and stolen,

I stand, the thing that grew when a brand-new tree was broken.

These words have a meaning.

I have lived this life and I have tried to find a meaning, I have fought against all of the noise in my head, all of the hate in the world which buries my people.

I have tried to lift hearts from cages and teach birds to walk,

So their wings won’t fail them.

These words have meaning.

If you will just see
I cannot yet fly
I have only a wish to know the clouds.

If you will read these words and know my love, we may both find the wind.

I have died and come back to life
to be here
to give you this moment

I write for only one reason.

I am these words.

I have meaning.

Matt Eayre