And who will save me?
[from over-inflated needs for solitude,
from polygons that have corrupted joints,
from saying too much and saying too little,
from alter-egos who watch too much day-time television,
from absent lovers that still play games,
from inevitable paper-cut pains,
from unexpected attire stain shame,
from psychological arbiters inside the head,
from dead flower pot funerals every other month,
from unstressed syllables in Scrabbles,
from inflicting alcohol and cannabis related verbose injuries,
from drunk email writing marathons and
from this furious I and me. ]
but surely it is wise to suspend monologues until hangovers subside and misanthropy leaves you free?