NEPHART.COM

What do you complain about the most?

They turned a country into hell.

My life… into an Alcatraz cell.

At least that’s what I say

when I can’t find my socks

before going out.

I look under the bed.

Inside the drawer.

Behind the door.

And then…

there’s the cat.

One sock in its mouth.

Running toward the garden

like it just won a championship.

I chase.

I negotiate.

I lose.

Now I wear odd socks

like a part-time circus clown

in a town

where they cut down the trees

and replaced fresh air

with fresh perfume.

My job sucks.

Management are ducks.

Quack.

Quack.

Quack.

All day.

I put cotton in my ears

just to survive the pond.

Bought a shirt last week.

Looked perfect in the changing room.

Now?

It hugs me too tight.

Maybe it shrank.

Maybe I didn’t.

Maybe it’s the belly fat

whispering,

“healthy diet.”

Why is everything so dim?

What happened to the light?

I try to keep calm

but sometimes the house

feels like a boxing ring

and every day

wants a fight.

Food doesn’t taste the same.

Too salty.

Too fast.

And who put that long hair in my plate?

Long enough

to travel a hundred yards

if given a visa.

My plant was supposed to bloom five flowers.

Only three showed up.

I water it every day.

Still, it negotiates.

The neighbours bray all night.

Sounds like donkeys

paying rent next door.

Potholes in the road.

Maybe I should plant flowers in them.

At least something

would grow.

Blackheads.

Pimples.

Creams that promise miracles

and deliver… silence.

Leaders that promise change

and deliver… speeches.

And after all that—

after the socks,

the ducks,

the potholes,

the perfume air—

I say

“I really don’t have complaints.”

These are just everyday things.

Tiny storms

in a very ordinary sky.

Maybe I complain

because life is still… ordinary.

Because the worst thing today

was a missing sock.

Maybe I complain

because I have the luxury

to notice.

And maybe…

that’s not hell at all.

That’s life.

Still blooming

three flowers at a time.