a little bitter, but nonetheless true

I know so many
and I so often forget
who are so unhappy and
only have themselves to
blame.

and they get real literary about it.

they splash around in their woes
and still somehow manage
to be so
dry.

endlessly dry.

they masquerade as
the broken and the damned
with their designer problems
woe is me
why am I so alone?

they martyr themselves by the hour
trying to convince heaven and all else
that they are not like the rest of us,
can't be like everyone
else.

psychosomatic ailments
psychotic delusions
hypochondriac
snake oil
folderol.

the worst part is how they always find me.

they always seem to think
that I am just like them,
they lick their lips
at the
MYSTERY
until I tell them about jail
and addiction
and dead children
and then suddenly,

"oh look at
the
time!

see,
I was in this relationship
with another one who cared for me
but the grass in Ireland is emerald
and I heard there are men
in Denmark who will carry me on their backs
and its just all so
domestic
and it gives my inner author
the blocks
and I was born to melt my eyes
while staring at the sun
and
realize while dying
the real poetry
was in front of me
the whole
time."

then they run back to write
about how artistic they are
how no one understands them
how they cry into cornbread
and how they panic alone in the dark.
such great thinkers
such victims of a cruel and
indiscriminate
universe.

all the while,
the broken and the damned
(the real ones)
buy the store brand shampoo on discount
skip dinner
and wake up when
its time
for
work.