Monday, April 11, 2016
A poem by Gary G Pelow, Dull
I am dull, I have no bright colors, my personality is flat, I have no flare. I seek excitement in sex, food and music to hide the disgust I have for my own tedium. I am banal, I inspire nothing that is interesting, engaging or exciting, I am a bore, I tire of myself very easily and I am disgusted by it, and of myself. No woman wants to be with a bore of a man,, they want excitement, they want machismo, which I do not possess, I am like a dead puppy, no longer active and hopeless to revive, my personality is an annoyance to other people, they are irritated by my physical presence when I am in their vicinity. I sit alone, typing this drivel, as if someone actually wants to read it, I type in vain hopes of getting attention from anyone, even strangers. I am what they call an attention whore, I would sell my soul for recognition if I had one to sell. My head hurts, the pain is made more pronounce by the complete lack of anything interesting in myself to distract me from the pain in my head, or any other pain and discomfort I may feel in my body. It is grey outside, raining, damp, wet, dull, like me. I do not wish to hate myself so, but I do, my self contempt is full and strong and I have no one to share the misery and feces that I wallow in. There is nothing to do, I am restless, jumpy, nervous, which is not the same thing as excitement or interest, the restlessness can be blamed on my own dull inability to think of things to occupy my time, I hate people, they hate me. When I am active I am always alone, devoid of friends or even people I know only casually, I am alone as always, drowning in self pity and an ocean of cold blandness, if only it were a real ocean, I would stop swimming just to drown.