What am I doing?

Where do I begin? Finally, after three years of torturous, painful, personal tragedies, I'm breaking out. Only to find the fear I thought I'd kicked, BLAST its' way out of the locker, scale the cliffs of Mohr and jump on my back like that old familiar coat nobody likes you to wear because it reeks of jobs past but still fits and keeps you warm anyway. Seeing that I'm up against PHds, humanity learners, people who have obviously more poetry reading, more depth more rythm, and here I am thinking I can just jump in and swim at my liesure. What a fool am I ? The kind of fool who dismissed at age four, the ditty he wrote about a dandelion, forgot he liked the beats of Seuss and memorized "A crooked sixpence" from Mother Goose. The fool who was introduced to blacks via a baby sitter, but had no clue what "soul" was. The fool who twelve years later would discover his "gift" of mechanical aptitude, throw that away too, and become horribly sidetracked for the next nineteen years. Now, I dread another sixty months of three-thousand dollar a month payments. Five more years as a personal slave to Fleetcar as I continue to feed the machine. Showers every third or fourth day, food that's grossly undercooked and stints long enough to make me forget what my wife looks like, IF I remember her at all. What the hell am I doing? Where am I going? Why? Forgive me if I've wasted anyones time. I can't seem to dispose of this coat. Pity pithy pus. The wound that festers and never heals.