Symptom
recital
I do not like my state
of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous,
unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate
my hands,
I do not yearn for
lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's
recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at
night.
I snoot at simple,
earnest folk.
I cannot take the
simplest joke.
I find no peace in
paint or type.
My world is but a lot
of tripe.
I'm disillusioned,
empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd
be arrested.
I am not sick. I am not
well.
My quondam dreams are
shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my
spirit sore:
I do not like me any
more.
I cavil, quarrel,
grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow
house.
I shudder at the
thought of men.
I'm due to fall in love
again.