Tired of living because I've dreamt how great life can be.
Reality is exhausting. The struggle strikes fear.
I am here, now, angry, frustrated, sick, neuro-chemically unhinged.
My only act is a self-indulgent self-pity, the stuff of crappy poetry,
the essence of a wasted man-child.
Psycho-pathologically categorized, caged.
My enjoyment is a symptom.
Imagen: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (Forman, 1975)