Lament # 10

I can feel it creeping up on me, soft and slow, like a slug or stunned cephalopod, and it knows my weaknesses and where to hit me and it’s oh so subtle but one minute you’re striding brightly through the world and all worries are manageable and then the weather drops or serotonin fucks off to the amygdyla or likely altogether, and bam you can’t think, can’t concentrate, can’t string two coherent sentences together in any way that makes you happy and the women are scornful except the weird, the damaged, and especially the damned, a sexy smile simply won't drop your way or you were oblivious or worse, like a Lou Gherig’s victim, aware, but unable to move and do anything about it.