Your stabs hit me exactly where you hope they would with such ferocity that gouges out all vanity and conceit. A knife ****** through the illusions of my bloated ego, An ugly distortion of an inner image through a plastic glass which finally crumpled with me looking at the looking-glass self.
The poem deals with illusions and projections we all indulge in but hopefully other people's mordacity and severe criticism unveil the guise of a soul on high horses- a chastening and purifying experience