You're The Most Miserable **** I've Ever Met

I can’t do pull ups, and I can’t touch my toes,
and sometimes in my periphery I notice my nose.
I own this body and it owns me, and even I fear
after twenty one years, as I bring my hand near,
love lines, life lines and the whirlpool of scars
looks as alien to me as the surface of Mars.

My eyes are brown but out I see black.
And when the stars come out, the panic attacks.
The magic 8-ball in my beside drawer states
nothing less than, ‘It’s not looking good, mate.’
I disagree; I try to keep my cool,
but BBC news seems suggest that I’m a fool.

You’d break your neck just to keep your chin high
and I’ll break it for you, if you shut your eyes
and just listen to the sound of your own voice.
It sounds like a broken record, like white noise.
I would write about misery and the pathetic,
but you all know, you’ve heard the rhetoric.

I can’t fix it all, I can’t touch my toes.
I can’t even blow my brains, let alone my nose.