I wear odd socks

My socks don’t match and my room is untidy,

I can’t find my keys, or my purse or my left glove.

I fold my clothes inside out and leave them in piles

On top of heaps, on top of gathered things

On top of fallen leaves and discarded receipts

From the forgotten buys of yester-week.

My heart thinks at a thousand beats per minute,

Jumbled words and complex equations.

My brain pours emotion into empty jars for safe keeping

And labels them with question marks and dot, dot, dots.

My writing is illegible and my speech: borderline.

I can’t remember your name, or his number or their age.

I know the rules of the game but I hardly ever play:

I’m a spectator bystander, observing-outside-critical eye.

I’m a grown up, grown child, grand gestures and medium ideas.

And now is the time to stop thinking, start feeling:

Now needs to be organised, prepared and set ready.

Because if I carry on and don’t stop, mismatching my socks

Mislaying my way and messying up my world,

I might never, almost find the one thing I don’t know I want.