I am a good man;

I am not a good man.


I drink too much,

but I feel guilty about it.


I constantly condemn myself,

but do little to make amends.


Remorse is a form of absolution;

my life is compromised by remorse.


Overthinking past possibilities,

I am presently oblivious.


I want to show people my poetry,

yet feel childish when I do.


I vacillate between insecure competence,

and the lies of incompetence.


What do people do with their minds

who do not read or write?


If I were someone else,

I’d be bored with who I am.


(January 7, 2022)

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