Complaining is talent given to me from God,
I've concluded that it's my one true gift.
Is it possible that I'm just a poet?
Or will this talent soon drift?

I complain and I complain,
No wonder why I'm so misleading.
As I emulate the mind of a man of strength,
But I speak the words of my dysfunctional brain.

I'm complaining about complaining,
How Ironic this seems to be.
Short words with longer meaning,
I complain so much,
That I forget that I am free.