A Game Called Life

Can you sort the memories,
Into something lucid that can be told,
For those to enjoy in years to come?

Some say I have no soul, no conscience.
But I know that my memory is too clouded to clear.
Too painful to remember, too close to my heart to forget.

I can see through my misty paradise,
That all doesn't sit well with you,
But I know all will become clear with time, as it did for me.

I have to pick up the pieces,
With broken hands, while they fall through the cracks
Of a lifestyle I've grown so used to.

I heart your heart, call my name.
The wreckage of your past means so little now,
So forsake it and forget.

I've been bled of all I had to lose.
Vindicated of all the ill-est of intents,
To seek you where you cannot be found.
I'm left here with a puzzle missing half the pieces,
And I am expected to finish this thing called life.
It's clear that I must create what is lost, because it cannot be reclaimed.
It's a constant reminder of what I can and cannot have.