I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, Querelous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands
I do not yearn for lovlier lands.
I dread the dawns recurrent light
I hate to go to bed at night
I snoot and simple, earnest folk
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type,
My word is but a load of tripe.
I'm dissillusioned, 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 crush, my spirit sore
I do not like me anymore
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse
I ponder on the narrow house
I shudder at the thought of men,
I'm due to fall inlove again.
-Dorothy Parker
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