Somethings I remember, somethings I forget,
But nothing comes to mind that I would likely regret,
To and fro my mind in a tither I too often think,
So confusing at times the words that I speak.
To myself my conversation. I answer, and I tell,
Why should it bother you? I know myself so well.
So if you have to ask me twice the words I say,
It may not be you at all, I am just having an imaginary day.
© Cynthia Clark