Annus Horribilis

M.M.I.V., lost year, debris.

“Oh, let me trample you today.”

No award, oh, no nominee.

Cut wrist and bruised fist coexist.

“Oh, watch the smiles start to decay.”

The self-doubt is hard to resist.

Can you lose any more, can you?

“Oh, let your attachments go, now.”

Such a narrow gate to run through.

When will you be allowed back home?

“Oh, watch as I make you more low.”

Why reach now for your pocket comb?