The minutes grind on like hours,
time dilated by ennui,
regret, despair, self-reproach,
grief, denial, anger, antipathy,
self-loathing, longing, frustration,
irritation, confusion, indignation,
dissatisfaction, alienation, loneliness, fear, inner turmoil.

I hate fake smiles.
I hate forced laughter.
I hate dull knives.
But I also hate getting cut.
I really hate seeing my own blood
flow out of me.
I hate getting older and
I hate the thought that I'm gonna die some day.
I hate the thought of all the suffering
going on in the world right now,
and all the untold human misery over the ages,
and all the unimaginable suffering yet to come.

I was imprinted in early childhood
with the idea of the scapegoat as the ultimate hero:
Jesus Christ, taking the sins of the world on his back,
suffering and dying.

I'm sorry.
I feel sorry for myself.
I feel disgusted with myself
for feeling sorry for myself.
I feel angry with myself
for feeling disgusted with myself.
I hate myself.

But this iteration hides
a kernel of hope
within itself.
Jesus transcended sin, suffering and death --
he was a god.
But the poet is a god too, in a small way, sharing
that divine madness, that beautiful sickness,
this melancholy gift.

And this is my melancholy gift
to you, to all of you, to everyone,
to anyone,
to the world -- these few more words
in the long string of words I've written
in the longer string of words that men and women have written
for centuries, past and present.

Time dilates my mind
'til every possibility seems
useless, futile, vain.