A Predilection Towards Self-Pity Poem by Heidi K. Haskell

Or
I’ve Written Too Many Love Poems

Of all the words of love and woe,
The lamest are “He’ll never know.”
And sadder still, when mournfully,
I moan the words “He doesn’t see.”
I’ve never chanced to like me less
Than when I penned “Why can’t he guess? ”
Oh, often I have mangled rhyme
For one who’s hardly worth the time.
And I’ve been known to pine away
For one who’d, more than likely, stray
Or treat me bad, forget to call,
Or make me change me, worst of all.
Well, no more. Here I firmly vow
This pity party ends right now.
Today I embargo sorrow
(But might forget this tomorrow) .
Whene’er I start to moan and whine,
Please tell me “Woman – grow a spine.”
When seen with eyes from weeping red,
I beg you, slap me in the head.
Though I think myself so witty,
Nature bends me t’wards self-pity.
Rather than fight for what I want,
I languish. Oh, my giddy aunt!
Surely I would swiftly smother
This behavior in another.
But I – alas! – indulge in me
This morbid bit of mopery.
And worse, this gloom that never ends
Is often foisted on my friends.
I write sad words, my soul to bare,
Not realizing they don’t care;
Yet patiently they let me drone
When they’d rather be left alone.
I surely fear, I do regret,
I have incurred some karmic debt,
For none deserved, there was no need,
For smarmy schlock I made folks read.
Of all the words of love and woe
E’er written by this so-and-so:
Sentimental, mushy, frantic,
Overly obtuse, pedantic,
Self-indulgent, cobalt blue,
Pointless, like as not untrue,
The antithesis of clever –
Worst of all: “I’ll wait forever.”