hands up if the guilt of self scrutiny stops you,
none of this bloat and fodder,
no fluff, no bullshit, no other.
Nothing can pull you from you,
without an ounce of arrogance,
seeing yourself in the third person is the anchor,
you have no false allusions.
Reading yourself like a scrupulous editor,
with interest and utter diligence,
with critique and endearment,
trying to cipher significance.
All this noise and chatter,
it feels so right to want to sever my head,
there’s too much squawking,
there’s too much vying,
my souls aching to be read.
Picture not mine