I write a lot
but they’re really all the same poem:
same themes,
same subject matter,
same ideas, circled through,
iteration after iteration,
over and over.
I hide it,
I switch it up,
but everything I write
is basically trying to tell you
that I am lonely
and maybe some of the reasons why.

My therapist
does not directly address my poetry
because he has a job
and I can’t afford to pay him
to read my reams of writings
but the themes come up
in our conversations
and it seems to come down to this:
my isolation stems from deep-seated dysmorphophobia
regarding the unnatural size
of my enormous cock.

I am uncomfortable
with how gigantic and beautiful it is.
I am suspicious
that I am beloved merely because of my midsection.
I fear that my art is appreciated
because of the whispers
of how well and frequently
I have been known to satisfy women
and any other gender that might be interested.
It is this discomfort,
the shame,
that is the cause
of all my issues.
My large and astounding penis
is what drives me
and my writing
and makes me what I am today.

At last it has been told.
Of course, no scholar of Jon Berger
should be expected to trust secondary sources.
If required,
primary research materiel is available
upon review of request.
You’re welcome.