Jake Lyda
3 min readJul 30, 2021

WebMD entices me to be my own doctor

To locate the pain and navigate my brain

And come up with a clear diagnosis,

One that offers a pretty grim prognosis;

I work myself up into a tizzy

I grow nauseous, I get dizzy

Yet I have no medical degree,

Just trusty old WebMD

Which is conveniently free

Kinda like most new sources, you see

They feed us their agendas, sell us lies

And most of us wonder who’s stupid enough to buy

Yet it’s us who are the suckers

Who suckle at the teet of those fuckers

Religiously ascribing to a certain set of ways

So that in more than one way we pay —

Blood, sweat, tears, currency we don’t have —

To remain where we are — depressed, broken, sad.

I have to ensure that everyone else is okay

Otherwise, I have no choice but to join in the pain

Inflict wounds upon myself so that others can’t hurt me

Protect my well-being with metaphysical injury

Welcome in panic so it can bathe me clean

And throw myself in the scrapyard, cursed, broken-down machine

Others hurt, then hurt me, so what’s the harm in shortcuts?

Take the knife to my own wrists, slitting in the deep cuts

My brain takes me on a ride and alarm bells ring

Causing my body to shut down but my imagination to sing

To project the worst onto my reality

And give me a dose of life’s finality

A tough pill to swallow, but swallow I must

To make sure others see I hurt too, they can trust

See? No need to stomp me down when I’ve done the work for you

I’ll make sure I bleed or bruise or feel used or contract a flu

Jake Lyda

I write about whatever interests me in the current moment: sports, entertainment, creative writing, lifestyle, etc. I'm tired of not being who I am.