Not much of account has occured today. I have ate as if I'm dying tomorrow. What a stupid thing to do. I tried on some trousers I used to wear; they used to hang off me, and now they just expose my love handles. Can they be called love handles when there is noone there to love them? It would appear as though their name is tied up with their function.
If that was to be true, I think I would be a saver of men. Derivative. I don't seem to do very much saving.
Word Association
Mixing dream and reality
Real could be a whale in the Thames
Teeming and ludicrous
Ludicrous, but it happened
Hapless I; I wonder if love ever
Ever at all
All happened for me when
Whenever I think of you
Your letters and words or looks
Look as though I've shaded them rose
Rosy sickly pink, decieving myself because
Causing your memory to be changed
Changes me and makes me doubt
Doubtful, so much, that I keep concrete
Cemented proof, like emails and one picture
Picture develops ideas through eras
Ere while a while away
Weight that you stopped playing
Plays heavy on my heart
Heartless silly I
I am all mixed.
Another poem I wrote was to combat my insomnia, but instead my mind begins to make millions of frissons of connections that disappear before I can capture them in ink. It's a huge electric power plant, out of control.
Insomnia
As I lay me down to sleep
I pray that I'll be tired and weak
Instead I'm mostly too alert
To cure it, I remain inert
Different positions, on my back
The thread of time, once taut, now slack
Winds on as in a dim lit maze
Not dim enough for sleepy daze
Meanders round the shadows then
Jerks me back, conscious again
Familiar feel of falling down
Back in bed, without making a sound.
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