I struggle to form basic thoughts
I cannot make a start;
For I am sick and sorrowful
And weary in my heart
I find I no purpose to my days,
And everywhere I go
I cast but dancing shadows with
My little puppet show
The package says that I’m improved
But with defects I’m rife;
For I’ve grown wan and haggard and
Remorseful
For
My life
Well done–painfully familiar.