whatever

the only remedy for self-pity is to do for someone else.

welded to my chair

with depression and fear keeping me bent at the knees,

why can't i realize just how good i've got it?

 

the music mix on Chloe's page is set on scream

as i try to rouse my soul. the neighbors are pissed

but it sounds like a distant      echo      to me.

 

the paradox is that this paralysis

only yields to forward motion.

self-pity becomes hyperbole

when poets press the keys because

the truth is so much sadder than fiction.

 

i'm not paralyzed- i make it to and from the Frigidaire just fine. it's all in my mind.