Stressed Self tells me what’s wrong in dots and dashes in cryptic code in cravings of body that reveal mother tongue of panic

Stressed Self lacks control is powerless because the future is a vortex of overwhelm a cataclysm of bastard men and their bitches and it is terrifying

Stressed Self eats half a Snickers a whole packet of English crisps a choc-mint icecream too many noodles and drinks four cups of tea all in one day

Stressed Self pulls the trigger on impulse purchases that mean little except transitory pleasure and exertion of control over misery and chaos

Stressed Self writes poetry is a cliché of the artist who thrives on tragedy and why the fuck is it embarrassingly easy to write poems when things go wrong

Stressed Self is waiting for approval for gentle hugs and the cooing comfort that never comes the reciprocation of support given to others but rarely received


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