Every single fucking time
I try to do something to help myself,
To distinguish my sorry little self so that I’m no longer pointless,
Someone has got there first.
There is nothing new under the sun.
Someone has already got it done,
And they did it Better than me.
So why try?
The Encouragers cry,
‘To be Better than you were yesterday!
Surely that’s the only way!’
They don’t understand
That yesterday I was Better
And today I am a copied, pasted whisper of then,
And that I long to return,
Or to stop,
As each day I’m Worse.
The only thing that is Better than this
Is the peace of death.
So why waste breath
Trying to convince me to stay;
That it’ll all be Better one day?
That’s what you said yesterday,
And it was a lie.