i’ve looked within myself,
self-help books become my mirrors,
character twisting into ugly shapes
of what i could have done wrong?
i keep looking for something,
but forgetting why i entered the room,
and they sit watching me search,
for human errors and common ailments,
that i quickly diagnose as disease.
i can’t keep a straight face,
stroking my ego to ted talks and podcasts,
while arguing about the colour of the sky.
what if i’ve never been a problem,
frankenstein wasn’t the creation,
he was the creator.