Ego.
Composed of only three letters, but the death knell of so many men,
Much like other parts of one’s anatomy, it sometimes can be a grower and not a shower,
And sometimes it can send you off a cliff face like those in Dover.

Ego.
One word that defines and motivates so many men,
To the bullied and vilified who have become vaudevillian villains themselves,
To the self-righteous who believe that their higher purpose is to lead the masses,
A fire that can burn its host and all of those around it

Ego.
A carnival mirror that exaggerates how important we are in this world,
A fun house mirror that reflects gross inaccuracies,
Portraying half-truths and distorting reality.

Ego.
A pillar that keeps us sane in a cruel world where powerful men who will expire before their decisions impact them,
A fire that powers a forceful drive for progress,
A mirror that shows us a comely figure despite our perceptions.

Ego.
A force that heals and poisons at the same time,
A power that can build and destroy,
An essence that has to be balanced for it to be an illuminating presence that does not blind.

It’s a thief that comes in the wee hours of the morning,
Magically opening doors and breaking through windows,
It cares not for your jewels or cash,
Or for other markers of luxury.

Instead, its presence wears you down,
It engages in a theft that leaves your body and mind weaker and weaker,
Leeching off your mind and the grey matter that houses it.

It leaves you incapable of remembering who is who,
It stays in the house until you leave in a body bag,
It doesn’t care for any other tags other than the ones seen at a mortuary.

It sits on your shoulders and eventually shrouds your entire body,
Constantly wearing you down like a small trickle on rock, until eventually you are nothing more than a channel for water.

It leaves you wanting release from such a miserable existence,
But keeps you alive long enough to keep you alive to watch your own suffering,
Unlike watching YouTube videos in the 2000s, it will not stop for any buffering.

It reduces you to leading an existence marked by subsistence,
It is a cruel thief for it knows your address and doesn’t give you a chance to change the locks,
It wields a knife that slow slits your throat and stabs the hearts of those that love you.

It changes you to a shade found in Hades,
Devoid of happiness and joy,
But when you exit, its reign is finally over,
But much like the rule of a tyrant, its scars are deep and take time to heal,
And it will come back for those who succeed you,
Lurking until it was allowed to show itself.

I am sorry for your loss, they say,
Not comprehending that it is more than a loss,
It is a removal.
Let me know if you need me, they say,
When they would have nothing to do with you and would speak ill of you otherwise.

Would it be ok if we did this or tell so and so?
As if they suddenly care for your opinion,
A video call from the morgue, a phone call expressing their grief while you are trying to keep your head above water,
Coming 45 minutes late to a funeral when the casket has been cremated,
And expecting us to engage in jovial conversation.

Dumping all of their energy onto you when you are trying to get through the day,
As if you haven’t just had a punch to the gut,
I am sorry for your loss, and my condolences.
Two separate phrases that mean nothing and everything at the same time,
Sympathy is coming in from those who would be the first to stab you in the back.

I am sorry for your loss, and my condolences.
Kind words that mask your true intentions and your venom.
I am keeping you in my prayers, as if god is listening to you on your purported hotline with Him.

They were always in my prayers, so this was your work?
I made sure to always thank the almighty for their presence, so you are claiming responsibility?
Oh, I am so grateful to have people like you, because at least I know who you are.

Keep in touch, you say, but I say our business is done.

Loneliness, solitude, keeping one’s own company,
The same feeling carries different labels depending on the taxonomy,
One almost feels burdened by a sense of monotony.

Cloistered in a mansion like Skully’s Landing,
Except that the mansion moved around regardless of one’s physical location,
It often leaves you unable to feel like you are in good standing, despite others’ persuasions.

Surrounded by swans and members of the factory,
Who knows you as a facsimile of a person, but are not interested in substance,
It feels as if you are surrounded by beauty, but your place as a spectator is firmly placed.

Not many people can understand the pathos present in this feeling,
The way the constant destruction and rebuilding feels like something more than just dharma or even karma at this point,
It reveals the truth but also blinds you to other vistas.

Nat King Cole once sang of a very strange and special boy, who was very rare, very rare,
This feeling goes beyond ennui and the lack of meaning,
Many often say that the gifted are cursed with being incorrigible, and that the curse of brilliance is isolation,
But pity the untalented who are marked with the sense of incorrigibility, and whose isolation stems from their dullness.

Classified as a form of pain by those who study the human mind,
It evolves and changes with our life stage,
Maybe it was a mage who was in charge of this process,
At least it would be something to write home about.

Silk screen paintings produced by the dozen,
Common in subject matter but hoarded like how Smaug hoards dwarven gold.
This is the feeling that goes by many names and changes one’s fate.

Claims about being a man of substance are repeated,
Despite the stamping of feet and incredibly childish tantrums that accompany such statements.

I am a man of substance,
No, say it with more confidence,
No, it has to inspire fear,
Too much emotion,
Oh no, your voice can’t keep up with your mind, schadenfreude strikes again

This is the rehearsed line that you tell yourself to absolve yourself of your increasingly frail position in life and your sins?
You are even more pathetic than we thought you were.

You lied, hurt others, and were cruel to the people who wanted to see the best in you.
You took every chance to put down the one person who made your life the great life that you make it out to be.

I can just imagine you convincing yourself of an alternate reality in front your mirror in that dark bathroom hidden away at the corner of that house, where only five steps away entire dusty volumes by Jiddu Krishnamurti on the value kindness and humility sit there waiting to be reread.

You keep on throwing out that word as if it’s the request for idlis and uttapams that you inflict on the one member of kin who even gives an iota of a thought about you.
Shame your palette could not keep up with the august image that you have impressed upon others.

You are certainly a man of substance,
And that substance is mercury.
Shiny and more of an indicator of its environment, with none of the structural tenacity or integrity of carbon.

Much like mercury, you are poisonous and when people are exposed to you, they fall ill,
And when we are exposed to yo,u we wish for your permanent expeditious removal from our lives,
Constantly shifting your form to be something that willbe  palatable to the other people at the other end of the table.

Men who have to routinely proclaim that they are men of substance are not constituted of the substances that they claim to be,
Fools Gold, Mercury, the list is there, just check the table of elements that you hold as gospel.

Now it’s your turn to deal with the aftereffects of your own exposure,
Sit and rot in your draftless room until the sun rises again, devouring an endless stream of content that would a right-wing dictator proud.

You claim that you are of sound mind, but that mind is made of clay and is rapidly collapsing,
How does it feel? To feel the vulnerability that you make light of in others?
How does it feel to have progeny that will never continue your legacy?
How does it feel to be like Lady Macbeth, constantly crying for that foul spot to be removed?

Every compliment is barbed and ****** others.
But your delivery fools people into thinking that this injection is good for you,
Go and sit with that relative of yours who is the pinnacle of success - you have a lot in common.

Tell the world how you believe that women are inferior beings to you.
Shout from the rooftops that you see queer people as less then,
And say it with your chest, you believe that people from different faiths deserve to be judged and treated horribly,

Go on, you are a man of substance.