Poem: A Coward Despairs

I imagine killing

myself,

slashing my wrists,

Bleeding

to death

in a hot bath.

To end the desperate,

pathetic

whimpering

that only I get to hear.

That incessant dissatisfaction

that tires me;

exhausts me with its cloying

need

for affection.

Is there anything sadder

And truly, truthfully more wretched

Than a man with a broken

spirit?

With a soul full of pus

and a rotting mind,

dreams eaten by maggots.

Fuck them all—

demanding customers

burdensome children

unsatisfied wife

elapsed friendships

They all gnaw

at my will,

erode my strength

But I’m weak,

egotistical,

addicted to the whimpering.

Cowards can’t kill

themselves,

slash their wrists,

Bleed

to death

in a hot bath.

Besides,

my only pleasure,

these days,

long morning showers

that make me late for work.