don't write don't write don't know why

i hate that i never write in this thing. no one reads it, and yet, the annual St Patrick's festivities remind me to begin anew.

something old , borrowed, or blue. Who knows:

they started moving chairs across the creaky floors of my stomach in May.
I'm still so hungry after this feast of a meal,
Will you, kind sir, be of some help?
A medical note would be so appreciated.

Do you remember, as you furrow-scratch your brow,
my pacing atop parking garages?
Just wrap me in your blanket and feed me alphabet soup.
Send soft messages soon... comfort me... comfort me.

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blah blah blah. Something new.