Constipation hell worse than perdition

Less than twenty-four hours after dashing off a poem

explaining why i wanted to die

found me experiencing physical duress vis a vis,

a bowel movement wherein waste unable to expel

from the anus of this guy

which bout with rectal obstruction

found me doubled over with lower abdominal distress

whereby comfort found me unable to lie

down nor sit upright (with back padded with pillows

against the cellar brick wall),

thus severe bloating a bonus well nigh

and managed to muster the means to bare

frigid arctic vortex aire to purchase

the Acme brand Metamucil, which akin to Drano doth ply

thru the excretory tract supposedly loosening the stools,

which optimism (product didst earn claim to fame) generated a sigh

if that expressed intent to cease LivingSocial would try

humph enjoining this lvii year old married male

to cede victory to the grim reaper, who would vie

as winner de jure to this common fellow invoking libretto

ohm resistant understudy waste not want not

allowing, enabling and providing relief,

without successful defecation

despite the oppressive urge to bolster this Uriah

heap of balled up and tuckered out five foot and ten inches of lovely bones

thence mouthing retraction of former thought to cease existing

though a non-bull lever in any power broker qua mankind

relief at long last provided posterior answered prayer

yet, this scrivener scrutinizes his recurring pain in the ass jagged torture

and asks a rhetorical one word question "WHY"?

Because Angels Are In White…

The poem is on Doctors who were heroes to us in the time of Covid-19

The Book is Being Written

How we observe and how we reflect.

The Dreary Faceless

The observations and reflections of a traveller in a foreign land.

The Model House

The facades of a perfect home.

The Woman Who

This peom is about a woman in my life, who is suppose to be there for me but is not.