An Eerie Game

Why is it that one's mind can be all confusion, With senses reeling in a blurred illusion, One's thinking, cotton wool, They're thinking, 'what a fool', Perhaps it's all a paranoid delusion. Bewildered thoughts shoot off in all directions, Goodness knows who's still in one's affections, With forgetting just one name, It's like playing an eerie game, So hard to try and work out the connections. So where can one find answers to this jumble, This feeling that one's head's about to crumble, One needs a fast solution, To get rid of such pollution, And save one from a very nasty tumble. Maybe a good night's sleep might do the trick, Then one could wake up feeling fantastic, One's thinking would appear To be absolutely clear, And one's brain would end up organized and slick. © Ernestine Northover