A victim of Lethologica,
I find myself ransacking my brain
For common everyday words I need.

Do I seem a fool or dementia patient?
I am neither of those - not yet anyway.
But my bumbling efforts to be succinct
Fall by the wayside as I stare into space,
Hoping that the word I desperately need
Is somehow magically floating there,
And stammering red faced when it is not.

The only thing that keeps me sane
Is my vast storehouse of synonyms
That I dig out to fill in for the better word
My frantic ransack did not uncover.
ljm

Awake too early once again
Afraid to read myself to sleep
Because of badness always hiding
In the bushes of my dreamlands.

Filthy restrooms, windows where there should be walls
People that don’t seem to like me
Things I need and cannot find
My life’s work an apology.

Tortured pets and wounded hopes
Mazes made of halls and stairwells
How fast I can’t run away
From dangers with their faces hidden.

Can I drive on narrow rails
And not fall to the canyon floor?
What happened to the coins I found-
All mine for the collecting.

Who is it I’m letting down
As I discover that I’m late
And all that should have been arranged
Is still locked in the closet.

Who are all the nameless faces
Everywhere not helping me
But mostly getting in the way
Of what I need to finish.

Wide awake before the dawn
I stumble from one nightmare
Hoping not to find another
When I go crash upon the sofa.
ljm

Oh my. I made a booboo.  I said in my interview that I had played Bardo's word game in the past.  Well it was actually BLT's word game, and I hadn't played it recently so I had a senior moment and credited it to Bardo, another HP friend, who hastened to tell me of my error.
I apologize to BLT and hope he'll forgive me, both for denying him his credit due and also for not keeping on playing the word game.
If you've never joined the fun, google Merriam Webster's word of the day and use it in a write.  If you do, let BLT know, as  he keeps a log.
If you need an example, look at things written by Anais Vionet.  She is a master at it. Again....apologies to my dear friend BLT.

Violin with just one string
Tuning peg turned green with mold-
How can music come from that.

Flugelhorn with dented bell
And valves turned red with rust-
Who can blow a tune through that.

Radio with no antenna
Broken plastic dial won’t move-
No songs to dance the airwaves now.

Warbler with a sore throat in
A covered cage in the other room-
Can’t out sing the crows outside.,

A singer’s soul in a tuneless box
Perfect rhythm trapped in mud-
Melody in turmoil to get out.

Envy, longing, deprivation
Effort, failure, mockery-
One who should but cannot sing.

One entitled to the music
That shakes mountains,
Calms the frantic, dulls the pain.

Given only little tastes
Of what that paradise would be
If only she could sing.

Why was her voice given to
A multitude of those
Who have no need or yearning.

Why was she deprived of song-
Of that one balm to heal and mend
The every breaking of her heart.

Why was she allowed to stand
Nearby enough to feel the air
Vibrating with the sounds of it

And not allowed to make her own-
To feel the rhythm and the beat
But not take part in shaping it.

Why was her feeling for the mood
Denied the chance to paint it
On the canvas of her throat

And send it out like pretty boats
On calm reflecting waters,
Even if nobody heard but her.

Where was the vibrato hidden
That she sought and schooled for years
Sometimes there, but mostly not.

Why her mental perfect pitch
Refused to translate to her voice
And became a sorrow birthing silence.
ljm

They were kissing on the beach
He wanted a whole lot more
She said no and pushed him off
Triggering the evil in his soul

He kicked her head
Til she didn’t move
Then pounded it with
A cinderblock
Until she was obviously dead

He dragged her down
To the ocean’s shore
And heaved her in
Like a sack of trash
Then calmly walked
Himself back home

I guess that is what
A guy’s supposed to do
When a girl refuses
His advances.

What kind of world
Are we living in
ljm

I remember
the me I was from
traces
I trip over daily
Brief flashes
of the insight
and ability to
share
that made me
someone of value.

Moments of vocal
clarity
that put together
two and two
and it always
came out
four.

Flashes of satyric
humor
that nailed its
subject
to the floor
and walked on it.

A momentarily
brimming mind
with all the
pieces
in their places.

But then
the fog rolls
in again
banishing
the clarity
blanketing the
ardor
making it
impossible
to be the one
I used to be.

Perhaps one
day
I won’t recall-
I’ll learn
to love the
fogginess
And find
the peace
that’s currently
eluding me.
            ljm

I want to be a kick-*** poet
I want to write things people read
And then say “******* !”
I want to upset the apple-cart
And kick them as they roll away.

I want to write words that will make
The reader throw the book across the room-
Then send him to the garden shed
To find a pitchfork and a torch
And sturdy cloth to make a banner.

I want to be a kick-*** poet
And move the shutters off the hearts
Of those who have it locked away,
And open them to love again
In ways they never knew before.

I want to clarify it all
In phrases understandable
So everyone who reads the lines,
That know the way to touch their heart
Will find some magic hidden in my words

I want to be a kick-*** Poet
Who’s thoughts astound and move the world.
To be the one they  listen to
When all else gets lost in the noise
And I can maybe lead them home.
   ljm