To Myself

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