Charles B. Snoad

ANGST OF A NICE GUY

Always get the “you’re so nice”
A thoughtful man, I’m told
Still waiting for a touch of love
A hand my hand can hold

Waking just extends the dream
My made-up gods no longer real
In trading youth for wisdom
I sense I’ve made a rotten deal

There’s what you desire
Loads of empties to fill
Then the blunt force trauma
Of fate crushing your will

Plagued by good intentions
Think my impulses through
I’m perfect at self-sabotage
Messing up the best I do