This is a poem ragging on someone I used to be.
ISYMFS
Self-pity is exhausting.
Setting up. Dressing down.
Hitting the bench and feeling the burn
of bridges and bones,
red-browed, tearing up.
No shuffle mode. Workout routine is key.
Purposeful discontent.
Warm-up: five reps of Radiohead,
creeping through the fake plastic trees.
But we’re just getting started.
Ed Sheeran works the chest,
an Iron-Man core of sweat as you power through
the half-hics, clicks of exes’ Facebooks
and photo albums unmodified for years.
Upper back: Motion City Soundtrack,
shrugging at exaggerated inadequacy.
Rack it. Congrats.
Selective rejection sets a beat
to push through pain.
Take a break in-between exercises
and stare down the ceiling.
Plead and need and
listen enough, and Achievement Unlocked:
Everything You Deserve.
(At least, that’s the plan.)
Legs day takes determination,
bipolar but still the same bar.
Brow furrowed, striding uphill, across town,
head light from wistful intents and retroactive rebellion.
Make it a day to remember—
keep your hopes up high and your head down low.
Arms are Snow Patrol:
Balled fists at kisses missed
and arm tensed, “V” for vowing
it’ll never be as good as it was back then.
Crunches: hunching over the PC,
a knuckle-gut feeling as you surveil
the blips and tickers, traffic-like,
for a flirty PM or Verified retweet
suggesting there’s still a chance.
It takes a lot of activity
to be inactive.
And Coldplay? Creatine, the chaser
to an evening well-undone.
Don’t forget to stretch
with some neutral Top 40 tune.
It’s okay to go tired to bed,
just not breathless.
But, you know what?
The gains never come
and the wait never lightens.
Personal trainers are costly,
and spotters hard to come by.
So, I’m thinking,
if you try to raise your spirits and it breaks your back,
take some plates off already.
It’s less muscles to smile than frown,
goes the cliché, so hey—
why strain something?
Yeah, things not working out is a workout,
but it doesn’t have to be a burnout.
Motivation goes both ways, and so it’s high time
you scaled back—slowed up—
eased down the dumb bells
and said “what the hell,”
It’s still your set,
and I know you can lift less.
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Notes&Sketches 
Can’t say I’m much a gym goer but I definitely recognize descriptions of feeling trapped or locked into a bad place.
Hope you can publish this legally with all the musicians you mention by name!
Ha, thanks! But yeah, from what I know of the industry, name-dropping fortunately shouldn’t be a problem. Already existing on a blog, on the other hand… well, let’s just say I’m investigating how to scrub some Google results, purely for hypothetical reasons.