In critique of self

Morbid curiosity and an unhealthy love of sordid tales. Enraptured by to be or not be but ailed by a lack of personal clemency, a flagellatory mindset that fails when perspective is needed the most.

Misery loves company and I am all the company I will ever need. Diving deep into personal pain with pretexts of artistry, mostly leads to vain and vacuous soliloquies disguised as poetry.

Intellectualising emotion imagines impartiality, clarity and sanity; all skills I can deny with voracity.

The achievements I am proud of could be counted on one hand. I have never been that grand, cool or compelling. I am easily misled and strong headed with a strange love of meddling.

All of this is me but not all the time.Most of it is fine because being human isn’t a crime.

I am far from in love with myself but love begins with like and I can’t lie; I like myself a little.


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