i am sick

i am sick.

Sick of the narcissism that strangles this world.

but this disease has infiltrated me, so who am i to talk?

i have accepted my nature. That is what i'm supposed to do, right? Embrace myself and then express my true feelings. Is this not the path society has paved for us? or more importantly: for me?

Wrong.

This isn't so much a poem, a self-servicing sermon to slap some sense into myself and the rest of the sychophants that slither the circumference of the globe.

You ask me: WHO ARE YOU?

and i answer again, with my own politically incorrect question: DO YOU REALLY CARE?

I will vaguely tell you who i am anyways because i loooove talking about myself...

i am a human. No more, no less. i will not stand the test of time. i am nothing special, but i could be someone special...

(yes, i am about to take an optimistic turn)

If i remove myself from my position in front of the mirror, i can see the world, or rather my suffering neighbor, but he is part of the world, nontheless. Isn't it sad that the reflection in front of me is more important than the soul next to me? To reach out and take his hand would be an unselfish act, but what if i am a selfish person? This goes against every fiber of my being. the molecules that make me up scream, WAIT! HE MIGHT HAVE GERMS! 

i look inwards, discover that i am a very fluid concept, take his...

Wait. I just realized the scholarship contest closed already...

Eh, screw it...

I am late.

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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