Life is just
a series of photos
skitting past in front of my eyes.
Some of them are in black and white.
Some of them aren’t very focused.
Some of them are like incomplete drawings,
with the upturned corner of somebody’s mouth
or half of a dark grey eye.
The memories flick past like a cartoon
drawn by some crazy kid
and held together by an old blue rubber band.
They trick
my mind into them,
pulling it along like an unruly pup
on a leash.
The colours are often very real,
too true and they burn
the backs of my retinas
sting.
Some are more sober with
shadings of grays and browns.
I tried some of those
old school 3D glasses,
with the plastic lenses
to see if they could make some
sense in it all but they
just highlighted all the
mistakes in each piece
and all the
lines connecting us all.
My life is just
a series of photos
flying past in front of my eyes.
And your face
seems to keep coming out.
Agitation of hands. Strength of words. 
I had a great, unexpected cry at the movies last night. I saw “The Invention of Lying.”
Go see Up.
Cried like a little girl.
Up was fantastic — almost like a Pixar retelling of Fitzcarraldo.
oops, i meant to compliment the poem, too, but i got distracted by the comments. nice poem