Better (a poem)

Every time,

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,

Every time,

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.

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