I self-medicate with nicotine.
I can't be compelled to believe
in my own evident value
or the obvious falsity of my conceit.
Language is my playground;
Passion, my purpose
(if not yet my practice).
I am thrown completely off my axis.
I have laughably few assets
outside the realm of eloquence
and economy of movement
that translates to grace,
though I've always disliked
the planes of my face.
I've grown wary of my judgement,
distrustful of the measure of my worth,
suspicious of my perceptions.
I equal only the sum total of my words.

11/03/2006

Posted on 11/03/2006
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