Rye

Now, is it normal that I should feel ill
No matter where I've been or what I did?
Am I condemned to be an invalid
Despite my own desire? Am I still
One of those luckless few who cannot will
Themselves to happiness unless they're rid
Of all distractions, and so must be hid
From everything, lest they, perhaps should spill
Their cups of fragile happiness? Am I
Condemned to be unable, though I try,
To find a self-solution for my pain,
To see my joy go swirling down the drain,
And never plunge it up? All goes awry,
And I am left to murmur and complain.