Mock me quietly, my dear; you have won;

I am but torn chaff now, and I will go

With some degree of self-respect, alone

To that dark place the brokenhearted know

And there I will fester as some sad thing

Awash in the pity of the self. But

Bathing in its warming balm, I will sing

For it is good to feel the bad, the glut

Of self-injury, the right of the grief

To be ones lord and master for a time

And I will be slow to seek its relief

While it is so comforting, sublime

And I will write mournful poems, such as this

To pass the day and salve the wounds. Such bliss!

10/07/2004