I am the pits unable to handle things,
Can’t cook, can’t sew, can’t build, can’t wash, can’t farm or garden;
Not able to drive properly, sing or dance, or keep people happy.
I am the pits incapable of communicating well,
Can’t talk, can’t laugh, can’t cry, or keep ‘em eyes dry while not doing all or any of this;
Not able to give company for more than a few minutes, or chat with someone for a few seconds more.
I am the pits who deserves a kick in the ass,
Can’t write, can’t spell, can’t even spiel or sell;
Not able to relate to others, or even with myself often.
Fortunately, I am like the billions of stars and planets in our universe, all in the pits, silent and unconcerned for thousands and millions of years about what folks on earth think of them;
Not worried, not harangued, not banged or kicked for being oneself.
(An occasional poem penned by me).