Don’t i see myself in a pathetic light,
with a runaway imagination—
determined, in short, by the devil’s blight,
lingering, from my youth, every notion
of love and fame—belonging to me?
Can’t i keep myself in check, and resist
immature thoughts that divest every
weakness or conceit that would persist,
leaving me vulnerable to the outside?
My true identity should be a secret,
and, when I cannot keep it inside,
then i betray the weakness that i fret,
and dissolve my chances of success,
one egotistical moment at a time.
It’s better when, in humility i press
onward—believing in me is no crime,
and shouldn’t be, and, indeed, i can’t
help it—but giving reign to thoughts of
fame leads, i think, to an endless rant,
which nobody, dear heart, wants to read.
So i bemoan the need itself, seeking
validation when nobody shall arrive
in the foreseeable future. Nothing
i control, yet, can keep my work alive,
and there is no promise that ends will
meet, the market will come to me,
and I’ll find the wherewithal to distill
it, in a nutshell, into something free
and beholden to my grasp, and my reach.
I’ll never take the world by the balls,
and exercise the intelligence i breach
when, out of hate, the universe calls,
and puts me in my place. I rock my boat,
making for an unfavorable journey,
clashing, as I do, with what i once wrote,
and a world, at present, that does not see
what i see, when, under the influence
of my dreams, i take pride in my work.
I thought, at one time, that I’d commence,
by now, with access to every perk
that comes, i think, with recognition—
as a man of no ordinary measure,
but, rather, a walking contradiction,
destined to die, and yet live forever.