Symptom Recital

 I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.

I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.

I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.

I snoot at simple, earnest folk.

I cannot take the gentlest joke.

I find no peace in paint or type.

My world is but a lot of tripe.

I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.

For what I think, I'd be arrested.

I am not sick, I am not well.

My quondam dreams are shot to hell.

My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.

I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.

I ponder on the narrow house.

I shudder at the thought of men.
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I'm due to fall in love again.

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