How glue me: On lacking sticktoitiveness

Most of my iv + Lix spittle existence
found me figuratively
(primarily academically, emotionally,

psychologically, sexually, socially...) adrift,
and malfunctioning blinker

analogous to a boat

without courtesy picture

an appalling Cap'n Ahab

ankh caws away!

aimlessly bobbing - treading water
analogous to drowning sailor akin
to a besotted drinker
just out of rest to be
rescued by Mister Rinker

sea ming lee without
any hook, line and sinker
despite being gifted with
an above average thinker

from without, where two
myopic ocular
orbs did winker.

All thru academia
just barely passing grades
metaphorically suffered from anemia,

and at my nadir,
thy prepubescent psyche
plummeted lovely bones
into grave state,

sans anorexia minus bulimia
mental health also linkedin
shot thru through with
healthy dose of dysthymia
cap (tinned em man hint mettle)
kept awake with insomnia

peppering cerebral
cortex with monomania

buzzfeeding earthlinked somnambulant

zombified condition
with a burning
desire toward pyromania
(nearly burned down the house
at 324 Level Road)

nsync with unmanageable
raging (red dee
and bull lush) testosterone
spawning satyromania

the above particularly
accentuated, and cresting
with accursed triskaidekaphobia

most agonizing, when
orbitz around Earth
accompanied by 756 full moons)
demarcated ten plus three
on a Friday the thirteenth,
according to Gregorian Calendar,

hence death be not proud

(originally titled

a fourteen-line poem,

or sonnet, by English poet

John Donne, one leading figure

in the metaphysical poets group

of seventeenth-century English literature)

sought after utopia
pleading, longing, and hooping
if I Willoughby
able to sprinkle
cremated ashes across Xenia.