Birthday

I find myself to be most unhappy

Around this time, very sad, very cynical.

Perhaps it’s the disdain for the false attention

Shown to me when people otherwise

Wouldn’t bother to be notified

About me, my life, or my doings.

I hate how those meddlesome worms

Wriggle into my life for a moment just to say

“Happy Birthday”

When, in any other context, there’d be nothing.

They piss me off; in better terms:

I am overcome with indignance,

I tremble with fury and am filled with disgust,

My cup runneth over with hatred

And there’s plenty for everyone to sip,

Myself included.

So strikingly false do they seem.

I regret my birth, so

Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s because

I hate being alive so much, that to see others celebrating life,

Be it mine or their own,

Fills me with such hatred and envy

That I can do nothing but lament every passing year

As merely another failure of my continued existence.

I am like a little goblin, a lesser being

Who watches from the shade

Observing fuller, more vibrant forms enjoy life

While it writhes in the shade

Gnashing its teeth and rending its hair.

“I don’t give a fuck about people.

Media is a re-run. Public opinion is like the little girl

in the toilet paper commercial; it’s got nothing to do with reality.”

I feel like crying, my gender-neutral guy.

I don't have and will never find peace.