When I recite words trite like “it itches, burns, he cheated, I’m sad,”

the lonely frustration isn’t on accurate display.

I’m perceived as a self-pitying undergrad,

I need to tell the doctor excruciating everyday symptoms in an uncliched way.

       Universal struggles so populated; experienced so companionlessly,

those outside the city limits of our pain reluctantly listen,

but when I slam my poetry, it’ll be taken less lightly,

they’ll sit up in their chair, their expression will stiffen.