Narcissist, narcissist,
you're a fiend for yourself.
Take another picture,
there's still room on the shelf.

Smile at the camera
while you scoff at the people,
you hedonistic *******,
you're a snake 'neath a steeple.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
won't you lie to me again?
Tell me what I want to hear,
or I'll kick my own face in."

So, strut your stuff,
you golden turkey,
you untouched gem
with a soul so murky.

I'm certainly not
exquisite in how I word
out my true feelings.

I can't paint a Van
Gogh of my emotions for
you, nor would I try.

I don't even know
why I feel the way I feel,
it simply spews out.

It's as though there's just
one little string holding me
back that I can't find.

If only I could
figure out what it is I
want out of this life.

Maybe then I could
stop writing poems I don't
like and start living.