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