Sorry, I can’t Help You

Robbed of laughter from a pounding thief,

whose only prize is to see me doubled over

with my palms pressed against my eyes.

Anything to help alleviate the pain.

Still having a voice yet feeling voiceless.

Each increasing octave is like an assault

against the brain: crack, thud, bang!

No more bar room stages,

15 minutes of Friday fame,

my carpool catharsis has suffered cardiac arrest.

Let’s not forget basic bodily functions, no!

There’s the buckshot cough,

spraying across my brain as I clear my throat.

Then there’s the suicide sneeze,

making me contemplate death

as a means to escape the inevitable pain.

And the triple crown champion of cranial hell:

Taking a shit.

That’s it. Nothing special, just sitting on the toilet.

Left in the waiting room

with no signs of being next in line.

No relief behind doors 1 through Z.

Please keep the lights dim

and the music low.

Kenny G gives me a fucking headache.

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