When I write I try to not write what I’ve writ The months before, knowing that Each three clichés, each thrice said phrase Is hinder to the mind’s synapse.
Used-up words five times five hundred, Never wond'ring why I’ve done it: I don’t want to copy - Least of all myself and me.
Falling for the trick that quickens death of brain Are quirks and quips and bits of what You’re sure has happened, quoted over, over. Mind’s a rover needing change.
I have friends who still say “weird” to amplify each seventh word; “Weird” since nineteen eighty-four. What it means I’ve no idea. And what is that word ‘weird’ good for? Change the words, For copying yourself is worst.
Am I copying my back life story? Parroting, regurgitating clichés, Making up my history? Faking mystery To make myself exciting?
Copying is weakening For you, for me, for memory. Variety’s the key. You do not need to copy.
PS There’s a red line running through our lives: character, aptitudes, permanent throughout. Bones grow up, grow old and change. Penmanship changes. Underneath there’s always a youyou recognize. Keep it in the frontal lobe. It’s there.