me, Me, ME

Am I wise?
That question bleeds foolishness.
It spreads and stains my white-washed garments.
Not red—neon pink, yellow, and orange.

A clown. A jester. A fool.

Why are you so self-obsessed?
Only when you see past yourself
will you look at anything worthwhile.
You are not worthwhile.

A mirror is a fascinating thing.
If you have deceived your own mind
to only ever see what you want to see,
a mirror will do the trick.

How about a whack to the skull?
Something with a little “umph”
to break down the lies and hurt like hell.
“Like” hell because I’ve never been, have I?

Wake up, slut. Wake up, fool.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

I’m drowning in the neon blood
of my own self-importance.
I’m choking on self-pity,
faced so far inward, all I see is me.

I’ve closed in on my own humanity,
everything is turned outside-in.
The mirror shows me what I want to see,
not what is, or what could be.

It looks like someone else standing there,
a distorted crying shadow.
I’m concerned for another—
Oh wait, it’s just me.

It seems I’m incapable,
and I’ve stopped trying to care.
My soul hangs onto my body,
by a strand of snotty hair.