I do not like my state of mind
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind
I hate my legs, I hate my hands
I do not yearn for lovelier lands
I dread the dawn's recurrent light
I hate to go to bed at night
I snoot at simple, earnest folk
I cannot take the gentlest joke
I find no peace in paint or type
My world is but a lot of tripe
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted
For what I think, I'd be arrested
I am not sick, I am not well
My quondam dreams are shot to hell
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore
I do not like me any more
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse
I ponder on the narrow house
I shudder at the thought of men…
I'm due to fall in love again