Shed your snakeskin,

no softness inside -

a puffed up hornet

of inflated air.

Fluffy, puffy face

darkened with scowls,

mouthing cotton tips

of anger, no pride.

Squishy, doughy

marshmellow memories

never say please.

Inflated lungs gasping

ripping stuffing

out of my pillows.

Rabbits with soiled fur

and encrypted messages.

Pot boils over -

bubbles of rage.

Wet heat

brands my chest,

unkind erratic dirt

spewing roughly -

a geyser in air,

I run for cover

and hide in the dark

fleeing swollen corpse,

bloating and rotting

like a fluffy bug

squashed under my feet.

Memories can bring ourselves pride, or rage, or shame, but every memory is an integral piece of information, the circuits in our brain that link to other circuits that come together to make us who we are.

Memories can leave us restrained by the shackles of guilt for all the actions we wish we'd taken or that we didn't, chained against a rusted steel wall of stubborn depression, leaving us with no tools to help us struggle our way out except unrelenting anxiety, which brings gradual detriment not to the shackles we wish to break free from, but to ourselves.

At their best, however, memories are contained within a special time machine we can step forth into whenever we wish, input the date, and within seconds, can provide us refuge into a safe, bright haven of innocent nostalgia, where all the negative thoughts that were once a turbulent tornado in our minds during this past are resolved, set in stone. Perhaps the memory could be big things from graduating to getting a job to our first kiss with our first girlfriend, to something little yet pleasant like watching Shining Time Station(TM) at our cousins' house while "riding" a laundry basket in front of the television.

Memories are what define us and make us who we are, whether they are in our favor, or to our detriment.

If we can use them wisely, to help us learn from our past, or just get us out of reality for just a few minutes time, they can be our most powerful asset.

Driving through the hellish traffic

North of Dallas, like a Maverick

My young man, you left the nest

We both knew you'd do your best

Solid painted bricks for walls

Narrow stairways, smelly halls

A desk, a bed, a window square

I knew I had to leave you there

Later when the settling done

You learned so much and you had fun

Your "signature," if you will

Cans piled high on window sill

You made it big the challenge won

Now the doctor is my son

Looking back at it all

It started at McConnell Hall