I don’t read anymore.
Every book I open, within the first fifty pages,
I become the protagonist,
A wonderful hero, or a terrible villain.
It’s a rare unrecognised schizophrenia,
And it scares me.

I don’t eat anymore.
I read all the labels, like I am supposed to,
Everything has words that are bigger than my appetite.
I miss the days when food was less literate than I am.
I am hungry all the time, but even custard is too terrifyingly erudite,
And it scares me.

I don’t smoke anymore.
Every pack of cigarettes I see says it will kill me.
They are very threatening and no sane person
Would ever light up again, but lots of people do.
I am surrounded by the deeply suicidal insane,
And it scares me.

I don’t drink anymore.
When I did I came alive and was a real person,
The world didn’t seem so bad and I had lots of friends,
But then the morning after would come, I would feel terrible, and be alone,
It is such an existential disappointment being sober,
And it scares me.

I don’t have sex anymore.
Diseases want me and women shun me,
I am too ugly, fat, freckled, and bald,
And although she says it’s what’s inside that counts,
Even toilet paper has sexy wrapping these days,
And, it scares me.

I don’t live anymore.
It is a one-way street that only goes no-place,
And everything I do, think, or breathe takes me there.
It’s not the living that bothers me, it’s getting to the end
And not seeing the point of the beginning that is the problem.
And, it scares me.

I don’t write anymore.
All the words I put down are cut, measured, and weighed
To someone else’s finicky taste. Most are inedible, it seems.
My words are not meat. I am a literary vegan.
And, they scare me.

David E. Oprava