Psalm 23 if I wrote it.

If I wrote it, this would be how it reads. Thank God I did not.

Antipsalm 23

I'm on my own.

No one looks out for me or protects me.

I experience a continual sense of need. Nothing's quite right.

I'm always restless. I'm easily frustrated and often disappointed.

It's a jungle — I feel overwhelmed. It's a desert — I'm thirsty.

My soul feels broken, twisted, and stuck. I can't fix myself.

I stumble down some dark paths.

Still, I insist: I want to do what I want, when I want, how I want.

But life's confusing. Why don't things ever really work out?

I'm haunted by emptiness and futility — shadows of death.

I fear the big hurt and final loss.

Death is waiting for me at the end of every road,

but I'd rather not think about that.

I spend my life protecting myself. Bad things can happen.

I find no lasting comfort.

I'm alone ... facing everything that could hurt me.

Are my friends really friends?

Other people use me for their own ends.

I can't really trust anyone. No one has my back.

No one is really for me — except me.

And I'm so much all about ME, sometimes it's sickening.

I belong to no one except myself.

My cup is never quite full enough. I'm left empty.

Disappointment follows me all the days of my life.

Will I just be obliterated into nothingness?

Will I be alone forever, homeless, free-falling into void?

Sartre said, "Hell is other people."

I have to add, "Hell is also myself."

It's a living death,

and then I die.