Ding ding ding I wrote this poem last fall: Metamorphic ideation, The obsessive re-creation Of the self Fears of inadequacy Always injuriously Feed the fundamentally Empty internal monologue Track a, track b, Both can't crack me, But make me empty My thoughts to this page; Unable to unwind, Turn it off and get high Forget and let it all go-- All this I forgo In favor of words. Fire finds fire fights Friendly fire battle Does it even matter Am I good enoughMeanwhile, parents continue to feed their children the loving, well-intentioned lie that there are “no limits” and they can “be anything,” which leaves the kids blaming themselves, rather than the market’s brutality, when they inevitably come up short.
Constant cogitation,