Join the Neopoet online poetry workshop and community to improve as a writer, meet fellow poets, and showcase your work. Sign up, submit your poetry, and get started.


I don’t know where I’m going
Forgotten where I’ve been
I don’t know what I’m doing
Can’t remember, what I’ve seen

I don’t know what I’ve done
Nor what I did it for
I don’t know who I am
Nor who I was before

I don’t know who you are
Or why you’re here with me
I don’t know how to say this
But please, just set me free

Editing stage: 


I thought you would say
Just stay with me.
Because even in complete loss of memory and orientation the need for human warmth is still maintained.
So it is incredibly tempting to alter your beautiful lines.

I don’t know who you are
Or why you’re here with me
I don’t know how to say this
but smile for me, please.

Hold my hand to the end.
Be a mother to me
or my friend.
I don't remember
who might you be.

I am locked in the box
of the moment.
Here and now
that's where I live.
I am feeling all right
and would be better if only
I've already asked you
to come more often
or simply stay with me
and hold my hand
to the end.

Sorry if I went overboard with my suggestion.
I also shamelessly ruined your structure.


O what a horrible thing. I had the misfortune of watching my father lose it all, until he forgot how to swallow and so, with a living will to not force feed, starved to death. I have seen so many dementia patients, and now my 96 year old mom is in the first stages...That said, I could only consider your poem valid if it were taken out of the thoughts of the patient, and into yours:

You don’t know where you're going
Forgotten where you've been
You don’t know what you're doing
Can’t remember, what you've seen

You don’t know what you've done
Nor what you did it for
You don’t know who you are
Nor who you were before

You don’t know who you are
Or why I'm here with you.
I don’t know how to say this
If I could I'd set you free.

Having experienced too often those with Dimentia, this is the only way I could accept your poem. Those who have it are so locked away they are incapable of questioning. The pity you feel is overwhelming, and you wish for them to be freed from this vacant existence. It is like the living dead. I hope you never have to experience it first hand.

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
ee cummings

I have an old good
well wisher and dear friend
now he doesn't know me

it moves me deeply. Which might strike you odd considering your choice of a light poetic format. Maybe that is part of what makes it hit so hard.
Maybe because my own mother is near death from dementia.
In fact the whole poem could have been offensive without that last line
"But please, just set me free"

Was the misspelling of the title intentional?

Neopoet Managing Directors, with Richard (themoonman)

(c) No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.