Ode to Creative Self Loathing


this schism which I live in

is choice,

not destiny,

I’d confess to thee

If only this soul could see

past the sadistic narcissism

I’ve crafted to be my home


So surrounded by love,

I’ve willed to be alone,

To groan,

to moan,

and own a retched identity,


a supreme fallacy,

to make certain to go not a moment,

without contrition

for words said

and deeds of this bed,

made neatly for a boy

who would grow

to be a man

if he could only understand,

that which others can see


Yet he,

I mean I,

will it not to be free,

in hope that beauty,

can be made

from the clay

of such self treachery

I suppose we shall see,

shan’t we?



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