In my Introduction to Literature class, we are reading poetry. Finally, something beautiful! Here is something that rings and echos truth in its rhythmic lines!
Or not.
I am doing a report on the poet and writer Dorothy Parker. Here is an example of her razor-sharp, and despair numbed, puns:

Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live
- "Resume"

With her typical irony, this poem was a resume of her life. She attempted suicide three times, when the despair of her life became too much.

This poor professor. He heralds and praises these poor, pitiful people who wrote out of their hopelessness. These people who, like me, have despaired of life. "This living, this living, this living" (Dorothy Parker, Coda). This living can feel so heavy. As I sit here in Cafe Libro, writing this post, studying this biography, watching this beautiful group of people of colored and dimpled and freckled and burdened people, I am struck.
These people, these people, these people have no idea.
These professors, these professors, these professors have no idea. This world has no idea.
Of the hope.
That life is not a purposeless running, moving, spinning on a hamster wheel hoping that you don't fall through the cracks.
That the pain, oh the pain, of a dead heart that beats is seen.
Oh Jesus. Beautiful One.
Savior of cynical, barbed-wire wrapped hearts that spew sharp words because barbs tear sharp.
Thank you for your love.
Your velvet-soft, mammoth strong love.