Damn, God, That is Some 
Cold-Blooded Shit

When I first found out my front page debut would coincide with the theme “self-obsession,” I had my doubts about what I could possibly contribute. I am the least self-obsessed person I know. But the longer I thought about it, the more I started thinking that the rest ofReads  self-absorbed SOBs could use a dose of what I have to offer. So I decide to craft a modest poem about my personal demons, designed to show the rest of you that you don’t have a monopoly on suffering. If you just took five seconds out of your day consider what I’m going through, you’d see the error of you ways…  so here is a sample of my poesy.

The Painful, Grief-Stricken Bitterness of Melancholic, Sorrowful Depression

Melancholy wretchedness,
Your embrace is a like a disease,
Contagious, virulent, pervasive, unnerving.
I am symptomatic, stricken by the cough of grief,
The stuffy nose of sorrow,
The aches and pains of painful aching.
I wear upon my breast the Vapo-Rub of optimism,
But its medicated scent does nothing to soothe.

I drown in liquid sorrow, splashing frantically as I try unsuccessfully to tread water.

Damn you, elementary school swimming lessons!
I am immersed in suffering,
Fluid sadness enters that space between my throat and nose,
which leads to that inevitable choky/sneezy feeling ...
Do you know that feeling?
Of course not. You cannot grasp my pain, not with a thousand hands,
Not even with a thousand sets of pliers.

I massage my sorrow with verse introspective,
The words to me are a handful of selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors
But these inhibitors function only as a stop-gap
Curbing my mood-swings, but rendering me unable to drink alcohol
and disinterested in carnal enjoyment.

And love … I scoff at thee.
Love is the invading army that cannot penetrate my fortress of solitude.
Not the Fortress of Solitude from Superman, that place was kind of cool.
No. A sad, dark fortress ... with sub-standard de-humidifiers.

I am zoo patron on the day the lion just lays around doing nothing;
I am a bus-weary commuter with a Britney Spears song stuck in his head;
I am a broken TV remote during a Dawson’s Creek marathon;
I am victim of food poisoning, trapped in the bathroom with nothing to read but a long, flattering biography of Dick Cheney.

Seriously, people, I am extremely morose.

Bittersweet minus sweet equals just plain bitter.