there are multiple
mirrors in the hotel room
i cannot seem to be able
to escape seeing me

the beard is unruly
i look vaguely despotish
as if formulating
the end of the bourgeoisie
or even worse than that
a fucking halfbaked poet
dimestore philosophy dropout
espousing barely cognizant
refrains of the greats
as strained through years
of self inflicted abuses

i do better with no clear
idea of what this latest
iteration appears to be
it always comes back down
to it being me underneath
and i have come to terms
knowing i am one of the masses
who want nothing to do with
me to fucking begin with

too many mirrors
too much self reflection
in shimmering scars