Poor Old Tom

Poor old Tom has a limp.
Something happened on his ramblings
Last night, and now he can't walk.
His paw is all swollen and red but
Poor Old Tom has a bad temper  so no-one
Can get a good look at him.
Take him to the vet, I say.
Listen, he says, all dogs die,
And it's Tom's time now.

Confessions on an English non-Opium Eater in a new city

"To the Reader, I here present you, courteous reader, with the record of a remarkable period in my life...."


I don't know where to start. It's all a daze. My head is fuzzy, like something fuzzy, and I can see everything but can't touch any of it. I can't grab hold of anything; it's all beyond my reach. 
      I know where I am but always forget. When I have to write my address, the one that comes to my head is where I lived a year and a half ago. I know where I live but feel like I'm leaving in two days. The only thing I can touch is Oscar, and thank god; he is what brings my feet to the ground. 
     It's hard isn't it? Life. Trying to do what you want to do. Trying to be true to yourself, be liked, be respected, be loved. That's all I've ever wanted. Along with money and to be a writer.