Who?
By:  Doug Doughtie
© 1998 by Doug Doughtie

Who am I?
Who is this messed-up shit head?
Who is this manic freak?
How can I know the meaning of life
When I don’t even know how to live?
You think you know just what I feel
Sometimes, so do I
But we’re always wrong, aren’t we?
Aren’t we?
I don’t get this crazy world
Here everything is too fast, too impersonal
Where is there room for feeling?
Nowhere
And basically that’s my curse
When you are one of those twisted individuals
That is made of nothing BUT emotion and feeling
There’s no room for you in this world
There’s no room for me in this world
I’m really nothing but a drain on society
I’m nothing important that will last
I will die
I should die
Lord knows, I’ve certainly tried
And unfortunately
I’ve failed time and again
But now I’m too confused to even try to die
But that doesn’t make me happier
I go to the bathroom
Amid the flowery wallpaper
And the bright blue shower curtain
And watch the crimson blood flow into the swirling waters
How else can I be free?
How else can I escape?
How else can someone who doesn’t know
why life is considered to be such a great thing
Live?
And how can he find out
When he can’t answer a simple question?
Who are you?
Who is he?
Who am I?