Poem To Lautreamont

life was given to me sarcastically; now i wade the swamps of doubt in search of something steadfast to rest on. life was given to me as a wound that every birthday bleeds afresh; i try to bind it with rags, i try to cauterize it, and i have considered amputation; life is weird and mysterious, i burned myself on gods' stove - now i try to alm the burning sensation with the aloe vera of self-deceit. life was given to me as a wound - suicide has not yet permitted me to make that wound a healing scar.