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Odds and Ends No. 22

I couldn’t get a grip on anything
so was all over the place. Breakfast
was sweet but I was scattered.

Perfect coffee again. Same toast
and matzohs. But time flew. Maybe
the muscles you use to type are

different than the ones you use to
write by hand. My left hand is much
better today, so I found a good way

for me to track repeating tasks in
my “test” bullet journal. Cross outs.
Arrows. I even bought a bottle of

white out to help me get through
my bullet journal creation stage.
But the secrets of my heart and

mind won’t work in a bullet journal.
It has to be a working tool; not a
cesspool like my electronic journals.

I actually thought of trashing all my
journals. Do you read your old stuff?
I don’t. Too repetitious. Much too

depressing. Getting late for lunch,
but I’m starved. Thinking hot Irish
Breakfast tea and bologna on wheat.

Mustard and I aren’t getting along
lately. Butter instead. Provolone
today to finish it off. I’m so antsy

today, I may not be able to read.
I better put the water on now.
Truth is if no one wants to know

you when you are alive, why give
them the opportunity to know you
after you’re dead. Not fair. Why

keep a record of all the pain? For
what?  I ate so fast, felt like I didn’t
taste a thing. Read a few lines too

fast. It wasn’t calming. The tea is
good. Follow-up with neurologist
tomorrow morning and the next

EMDR on Thursday. When truth
comes will pain go? I was thinking
of studying Hebrew again. The

three-volume set I bought a few
years ago is now sitting on my
desk to nudge me, cajole me, move

me to hope that there is still time
to have a passion for something,
a longing for something. Another

sip of tea will suffice for now. But
I believe there is more to life than
avoiding it. Things are changing.

Categories: Poetry

Tagged as:


Poet, Writer, US Army (Retired)

I dreamed of writing when I was a youngster. The love of books and writing may have helped to dull the pain of severe sexual abuse as I was sexually abused by two men at my father’s place of work from age 8 to 12 or so. I learned about this for the first time when I was 50 years old. So, as a boy, reading was the only place I had to go to. My fantasy world was better and safer than my real world. I loved reading and writing.
Reading books and writing poetry are a joy to me still and are an important part of my life. (See my About Me page on my blog for the complete profile.)

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