Panic.

Here I am, wasting sleep – and extrapolating onto others
The former great slumbers.
The resting of hunger and the easing of ego and the
Mundane procrastinations that we all gorge upon-
Feasting until the final great sleep.
Ingestion to halt the final great sleep, alas:
 
I am not Bipolar and I am not psychotic
And I do not have Cancer and I do not have AIDs
And I retain both makers and I dwell in warmth
And Doctors care not for me and I still have intercourse
And I am not a slave, therefore:
I must not be ill.
 
So why, oh race of ultimate glory – that renders neighbour
Flesh for the sake of family crest,
Have you not cured this inevitability, like you have done for your
Beloved mundane ticks – your hair dye, your make up-
Why can’t you put a Band-Aid on a heart attack?
Answer me that, species of the ego!
 
You disgust me – your fervent little insects
Guzzling after your little snarls – building my tomb
With a laugh and a – oh!
I am not humorous, yet-
I Post!