The Prismatic Self

I say the word and feign a Freudian slip From between its legs duplicities drip Often doubling as a quip and tasting chalky, just a bit History will record the troubling truth that I never existed if I don’t submit I’ll submit this thing as if it’s a soliloquy while being transparent with reverse psychology When transparency is brutal it packs a voice and reverse psychology, feudal and conundrous remains my voodoo doll of sadistic choice I’ll submit to this contest and play my part of being a number somewhere south of the winners art Once again I’ll suck up to the system and once again with all its heart the system will suck me down without even a gesture of orbiter dictum A social mirror once said, “we love you, submit to me” I used to show it what I wish I could really be but it cared more for its own scripted ego and tried to love me like a gas-lighting lover so I gave it the finger more than ten years ago I’ve been told that only the cream earns Summa Cum Laude I graduated Some Come Later from the hallows of a Christian god So how should I wear the facade upon this stage? I shouldn’t use “dude”, nor cliched kitsch like I just did But I’ll not to be sullied by a tired script from a mirror’s page Yet for the scripted glory this poet pines He rolls his eyes at the rules, and colors colors outside the lines Prismatic angles he declines and spanks his colors with twisted sticks With blinding tinnitus in his transient sight he thus surrenders and submits (to) his magniloquentesque amateur parlor tricks Earth to novice poet... Dude, submitting is not as painful as it seems Novice poet to Earth… No Dude, you know when falls the silent tree I hear poetic voices but my poetic choices have disqualified me, so this is my last reverse transmission into my pathetic poetic pipe dreams Thank you kindly. No offense but I should just go