Not a fan of it, you say
It isn't me, or
I'm not into that
sort of thing*

Oh, honey
we're doing it all wrong
Our egos tie our limbs
to the bedposts; and the self,
the I,

stabs, pokes, and prods

until we lose ourselves
in it's warmth, like a gun
to our heads,

a bullet engraved with
the word Self

and we **** ourselves
every night;

every choice,
a measured note
in a song we can't
call our own

we'll sing out of tune
anyway,

the Western civilization

is a spiderweb of self
deceit

and the entire world
will know the power
of I

as it spreads like poison

through the veins.