If all the world’s a stage
then anxiety is a crisis actor

The trickster archetype
typecasting all my critical thoughts as truths

Into a monster of the weak
rogue gallery
of self-destructive episodes

Maybe it’s the lack of SSRI’s
but SI be like:

Since they slashed and burned
half the forest preserve
maybe you should slit your wrists
and self-immolate in the center of it;

Maybe you should spill
your guts like seppuku
at the center of Daley Plaza
underneath The Picasso
outside that Shepard Fairey exhibit
(Provocateurs; Block 37)
Call it an art instillation

If all else fails, I’ll just throw myself in front of a Tesla on the North Shore