The Miserable Life Was What He Longed For

Always played down his happiness
Always overplayed his misery
The truth was never even close to the middle
He just worked whatever angle made him feel affliction

In the morning he would spend time
Thinking up some new disaster
To share with his fellow miserable cubicle clowns
Every morning he would write it all out
Just how unfortunate it was 
To have been born in a time that demanded little

He needed to be angry
He desperately longed for a cause celebre
Something, anything, to fuel the fire
The fire that made him feel as if he mattered

In the evening he skipped through the channels
Hoping to chance on something dreadful
That he could incorporate into his own tale of woe
Every evening he hoped for calamity
To darken the blue skies he lived under
Skies that dulled him with a bearable life

Why, he wondered, hadn't he contracted a disease
A popular one that would result in publicity
For his suffering, his pain, his desolation
The horrible life he always dreamed of

As he grew older he realized he would be cheated
Of his moment of true, pathetic, wretchedness
The years passed without one single incident
Of unimaginable horrible tragedy
That would add substance to his life
Insurance went unused, caution was for naught
Day after day in a morass of stagnant bliss