I’ve run out of fingers and toes
and knots in strings and other things
I’ve filled lots of jotters and those
will remind me of joys that life brings
I’ve written my name and that of my wife
I’ve added some things that I thought that I should
I’m trying my best to précis my life
I’d write it in shorthand if only I could
But will I be able to read it?
And then will I really need it?
The memories I’m adding so quickly
Are rapidly fading away
Synapses are getting more sickly
Deciding they don’t want to play
My family and friends show every concern
but worry ‘bout things that don’t matter
They now realise they’ve a great deal to learn
They think I don’t hear when they chatter
They speak to me like I’m a child
It really is driving me wild
I think a great deal but it makes little sense
Confusion is always close by
Panic is rising I’m getting more tense
And truly I do not know why
I think I may have lost the plot, but I don’t know, I quite forgot!
Peter Matthews, a country boy at heart, lives with his wife in the suburbs of Nottingham, England. His greatest achievement is that he has aged fairly gracefully but has avoided growing up. Peter has written poetry from the age of sixteen and blogs regularly at www.pollymermaid.wordpress.com.