In a rickety, rustic wooden chair
next to a matching table in a matching room,
one pink tentacle
wrapped around the ornate handle of a
tiny white tea cup,
the other suctioned to a page of an
antique volume of vaginal poetry,
I observe myself in a broken mirror.  
My 50 smiling fly eyes are beguiling but villainous,
inebriated but inhumane,
like black pearls of gooified obsidian
bejeweling the chunky strawberry jelly
of my veinous face.  
My beak is small like the wren's.  
My expression is in unison with my thought:
This mirror is very very broken.

I often wonder what would the world look like without me
the ego of man, brazen and bold
what keeps you awake, when others lay
unconsciously
physically opaque
tragically present
ringing echoes of words layed with ink
never having seen the light of the splendid sun
we plot and plot and plot
for naught
we are but a child, collectively
a singular child
one hell-bent on destruction
not seeing beyond the splinter of light
allowed through a cracked door
and the world looks on
with equal parts amusement and concern
our significance is insignificant
both tangible and fraught with the tragedy of being
of the lack of being
of managing what cocktail of emotions we are to be ****** into
when loss knocks on the door

I look at myself in the mirror,
A young artist, so lost - couldn’t see clearer.
Where to go and where to drip the paint?
I might as well lose consciousness and faint.

Confused, confined, cannot define the meaning of my life.
I don’t belong to any tribe,
Combining stories of my past,
I am so lost, alas.

The right, the wrong, its all collapsed,
The life will always just elapse.
Complex and very simple at the same time,
Oh look, another rhyme.

The vision :
(dreams torn, torn)

A picture came to me in the darkness of night,
Of myself in ten, twenty years time;
Worn out with the struggle, weak, and no longer able to fight,
Finally giving way to the forces ranged against me,
Sad and grey and defeated.

The sketch :
(in harsh charcoals)

This dream that came to me,
Was as though I had finally and sadly, late in the day,
Lost my innocence.

The Canvas :
(Life, existence)

I had been high-minded and apologetic,
Full of enthusiasms I didn’t quite mean,
And guilt’s I didn’t understand.
And now I stand looking at the man I could’ve been.

In Oils :
(violent colours)

I had spent years thrashing around in confusion
As drowning men pull each other under,
As wave after wave we are swept away;
Our cries obscured by the thunder.

My signature :
(...)

See my writing on the wall,
There’s no one to catch me when I fall;
But Death was on my side:
Suicide.

(rondeau redoublé)

This lived-in face has seen the years go by
at such a wild and unforgiving pace.
My powers are weak, though my aims may be high,
and troubles are all bound to leave their trace.

And while I always feel the need to brace
myself against life's storms, I know that I
can never win. Death always plays his ace.
This lived-in face has seen the years go by.

It's little help to know the rules apply
to every member of the human race.
Dark clouds are growing in my evening sky
at such a wild and unforgiving pace.

In this vast universe I have my place,
but can my thoughts outlast me when I die?
or speak to those in other time or space?
My powers are weak, though my aims may be high,

Yet while dark thoughts of gloom may multiply,
to let them win would be a sad disgrace,
though many things may make me want to cry,
and troubles are all bound to leave their trace.

Yes, my mortality I must embrace,
not waste my time in always asking why,
or fearing not to do things "just in case."
I'll dry those tears. There's no point to deny
this lived-in face.

if you draw yourself, looking in the mirror

then that’s a self-portrait.  
if you’re looking in the mirror to draw yourself,

you’d probably start you think of who you really are
I reflect on what happened and who I was in the past few years.

and I made this poem.