Find your life, daily, picking on you,
With little pinches in dribs and drabs?
You are, no doubt, worrying at it, too,
In the way we pick at, pull off scabs.
It is not the death of a thousand cuts.
Still, life’s petty problems wear us out.
I tell you this with no ifs, ands or buts;
We survive most, but we want to shout.
This didn’t happen, that doesn’t work.
The weather sucks, too hot or too cold.
Annoyances, delays, life being a jerk;
Even tempests in teapots soon get old.
Most of us can cope most of the time.
If we can’t, may be committed, dead.
Some share the pain, prose or rhyme.
What to say hasn’t already been said?