Scribble, Scribble, Scribble. The scratch-work of a madman.
Dribble, dribble, dribble from a half cooked brain.
Half up, Half down, half here, half elsewhere,
Half heartedly chasing a thought.
If there’s a point here,
I’ve lost it
again.

No.
That was it.
Of course, it was her.
The one who flirts with my tired mind
as she sends him unravelling and
screaming like a maniac off of his meds.
The little ***** that tricks with games I always lose.  

Lavender, rosemary. What’s this I’m on about again?
It’s vanished. Disappeared. No hope to regain.  
I tell myself stories  until I just
lose the plot. What? ****. Not again.
I’m so, so sorry.
I just can’t
even.