Mirror Talk

I hate, oh I hate

making things such as this.

Where the goal is to put myself in a box.

Under some artistic lenses,

I must then pretend that the image itself

doesn’t make me sick.

And no-

I’ll say it because you’ll ask-

This isn’t because I hate myself,

Doubt myself, or want some kind of praise

It’s because I’m not a finished product damnit,

so you shouldn’t be looking at the page.

I’ve still got some tinkering to do

With those things that only come with age.

A line here, white out there,

At least two more drafts to go.

I’m not ready to be put up on a wall,

To be put out for the snow.

Where, given the time of ticking years,

Or maybe even days

I can be judged by someone else,

Who thinks that it’s their place.