I am a mad man with big disease,
and it’s nice to be able to accept that
in a globe that spins continuously,
dumping me in and out of brightly-gray cement
that always seems as though it is ready
to cure and freeze me.

But I never freeze, continue tumbling,
keep breathing through the gray,
hoping someone will accept me
in return, for who I might be or might
have been.

I accept my disease
while chewing on my chocolate,
evenly, with Buddhist aplomb, but
I do not, can not
accept my self.

And so those tubby entities
continue to smother me,
and I wonder why worry
about such an inconsequential life,
for it is over so soon.