...ARGH!  Hence the title...



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXV)


Spent, ere the fragile chance to what? avail,
Look how blue skies warm in dawn's welcome, whence
Don't roll a single word for aught intents
Across my tongue, jist see, and wonder, pale
As howling oer grey heavns' sheer lack, nor scale
Lo, any bit of this or that cuz sense
Drowned late on Monday night where visions dense
With oh, Victorian airs stole off wee bail.
Yes, when I've but a minute to bestir
My pencil for ah, which detail passed through?
I'm swooning sans a voice yet over her--
That girl whom lit'rature FORGOT, cuz ooh!
She was his mistress; won the world as twere
Because of that keen secret:  I've naught cue.

12Mar19a

Mouth Heavy.
Handwriting is really bland right now.
Why do I always alternate between print and cursive?
My right ear hurts again, at lobe, just like last night; feels warm & pulled.

Pressure on my right elbow. Being left handed is irksome at times. I wonder if all the sayings & studies about us are just complete & utter *******. Last morning, and every other spent with her; Sleeping outline.

I’m happy she doesn't snore.

What do I write???

My mother snores. I need to sit up
I hate my rushed handwriting. This is truly chicken scratch.
I haven’t written like this since my Biological Anthropology and Archaeology class. Back hurts.

Is something wrong with me? Probably multiple things.
Should I read this aloud? I always feel others worrying for me. Though, I suppose I shouldn’t assume they always will. Regardless, I fear weighing anyone down. Why does my girlfriend sleep so much?
Do I just sleep less?

turn the page, adjust yourself. I have three minutes to finish this this isn’t even poetry. I forgot my last thought. Oh! How am I supposed to write about anything besides my mind when writing like this?? Well, I’m probably not supposed to.

What does my mind- not my brain- look like? Probably cluttered and unorganized. Everything that comes out is made up of what is within. I could have said that so much more poetically.

Why
Do we take
The best parts of us
And give them to others
Only so they can destroy us

Why
Do we put
Our happiness
In someone else's hands
Only so they can crush it to pieces

Why
Do we give
Everything we have
To people who don't even
Give a **** about our existence

Why
Do we allow
Our feelings to be played with
And complain
When we get hurt

Why
After all this
Do we still choose to love?

my hands
only distance a
few centimetres
from yours
so
why does it feel
like i
have to stretch
a thousand miles
just to
clutch your hand in
mine?