Blah blah

Oh, the desire to be clever
and witty
and sharp with a whatever
never seems
to want to leave.

The thrill of acceptance,
like Mummy telling me
"well done" as another hoop is
jumped through, is a pattern in my life now.

What do I do about it?

I yearn to create acceptable garbage,
that flows from mind to pen, brush,
and vocal chord. That easily spills from
my soul, in authentic globs and lumps
that still hit the mark; or miss,
yet it doesn't matter.

I know what it is: It's the old self,
begging for acceptance, and craving
love for being a clever boy.

Blah blah

Fuck it.

I just want my me back.