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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=578772" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Uncertainty Of Memory</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">my childhood<br>yes <br>MY childhood</div><div style="margin:10px 0">as i am fixed<br>here<br>the line is dead</div><div style="margin:10px 0">oh for a diary<br>but no one had told me<br>and no one had said<br>then</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and all those days<br>kept from the ink of a pen<br>an itch not scratched<br>only shuffled faces<br>in a box<br>but do the words match? <br>and do the lives stitch? <br>together </div><div style="margin:10px 0">i am set<br>to this life<br>now<br>and those thoughts moved away<br>some time ago<br>from this fractured memory<br>frame by frame<br>inventing days to remember? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">oh for a diary<br>just a simple<br>cardboard box<br>full of MY days <br>a book for each year <br>but maybe it was just<br>so fucking dull </div><div style="margin:10px 0">i try to fill up those spaces<br>inside this solid warm sparking mass<br>of my thinking<br>teased into every corner<br>of those years <br>in this place where it all goes on<br>this well-used filing cabinet<br>and the lost details<br>of my childhood <br>yes<br>MY childhood</div><div style="margin:10px 0">i TRY to be there<br>i fail<br>to really be that boy<br>In my head<br>at four or five who knows? <br>the teachers hand<br>my mothers smile<br>my sisters face<br>the house</div><div style="margin:10px 0">that boy of seven i was<br>Elm Park Essex 1961<br>who was kicking balls<br>and raiding fridges<br>for something interesting<br>and two biscuits made me smile<br>every day<br>and of course<br>the lemonade<br>on Saturday</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and those times of <br>holding wooden guns<br>my father had made<br>lovingly carved<br>from the noise of his shed<br>HIS place<br>he said</div><div style="margin:10px 0">in a small bedroom<br>i moved<br>too cold in winter<br>ice inside the window<br>so downstairs<br>by the fire i sketched<br>other worlds</div><div style="margin:10px 0">on that white space<br>killing with a well sharpened pencil<br>before the uncertainty<br>of memory<br>before the correctness<br>of politics</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Tony+Sweeting">Tony Sweeting</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=578772" data-title="The Uncertainty Of Memory de Tony Sweeting" data-description="my childhood
yes 
MY childhood

as i am fixed
here
the line is dead

oh for a diary
but no one had told me
and no one had said
then

and all those days
kept from the ink of a pen
an itch not scratched
only shuffled faces
in a box
but do the words ..."></div>
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