Sometimes

I still feel that it would have been better

to stop living in March 2019

I am, of course, o.k. with living 

from one day to another

but it doesn't lead anywhere

there is nothing

to get up for in the morning

to be enthusiastic about 

to love more than I do my comfort

There is only this shame and sadness and dispair

that nothing can possibly come

that could make this worthwhile

Meanwhile, writing these down 

doesn't make me feel better

if anything, rather worse

and yet, my need for complaining

gets the better of me again and again