Am I just bitterness Unfulfilled Discontentedness Restless And anxious Just want to escape this Perpetual do-over day None to blame But myself For this dismal, morose, Woe is me Soul decay Which I know to say sounds Like a lousy clichè Not the writer’s expressive Quintessence Expected From one such as I Am by others rejected Insect among tachyons God among atom bombs Nothing else left Except left-leaning martyrdom And whom I long To behold at least once More before I return To this ongoing war with What keeps me from her