I want to give out advice.
But I’m in no position to ever give it.
I’m a loser. I don’t know how to win. What everyone wants.

As if a loser by design,
I masturbate to the thought of women beating me up.
Winners prefer missionary position, or so I hear.
I honestly prefer no insertion whatsoever.
I much rather have my penis mangled and abused.
Should it be enveloped in anything it’s the fist of an angry dominatrix.
For some inexplicable reason it turns me on.
In any case it’s not ironic my fantasies take place inside a dungeon.

I’ve never tasted success but I’m sure it’s not overrated.
I’ve seen winners turn into crackheads in withdrawal
at the mere whiff of a failure.
If success is a drug it must be a good one.
And by it I’m as clean as a whistle.

There once was a time when I thought I could be a winner.
But after a colossal failure I fell for seven years before I landed
on a spring protruding yellow stained mattress of fatalism and acceptance.
In short I don’t get my hopes up any longer.

Some will tell me it’s a matter of mindset.
Some will tell me I need to walk harder.
Others will tell me I need to learn how to shut my mouth.
Participation implies winners and losers.

Yet this hasn’t stopped me from inclusion in life’s venues.
At least I might be the springboard for others’ self esteem.
Acceptance is acceptance after all
regardless of which side of the coin I may follow.
So why does the world crave but one side of acceptance by others?

Success is a drug. And I’m OK with that. Only the losers are sober.