I don’t usually write things with a angst honed edge, but I do sometimes feel the crushing darkness of the world around me and so, I like to exorcise those feelings in my work, so I can feel happy again. A short three quatrain poem in iambic pentameter.
Most of them will wretch at night
In bathroom mirrors upon the sight
Of what observes them from the glass.
The sycophantic little ass.
It thinks it knows why you hunch there
And run leather fingers cross facial hair.
It thinks it’s amply better off,
So it just glowers a hunchbacked scoff
Right back into your hairy face.
Of course, your humor you embrace
For the thing that loathes you most of all
Is you alone and your dreams that pall.
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