Anna Evans: Hardly Stellar

Down on myself, and wanting to make that clear in verse
before depression took me like the latest drug,
I trawled the daily newspapers to look for words
that might evaporate self-pity’s numbing fog.
But damn it all, the world looked just as sick as me,
and you, dear hardened reader, deaf in any case.
What could I write that might evoke your sympathy?
I’m white and middle class—what troubles could I face?

Only the human condition—whether it’s quick or slow,
we’re all worm food; love never lasts and children blame
us to their therapists. We act like we don’t know:
find God, get plastic surgery. It ends the same
whatever race or sex, whether we’re rich or poor.
Fool, said my muse to me, who are you writing for?