(Photo by author.)

How long can I talk about myself?

POEM

The correct format of this poem is important to me, so I put a screenshot first. ✌️

How long can I talk about myself?

Yipping is unpleasant for even two seconds over four.
I hear mine always. No event be too trivial for a yip or
seventy-three if I’ve fed a bad night’s sleep. I promise
I don’t consciously aim to rhyme, but it sounds better.
Yippee, I’m narcissistic, the science sound on all sides
of the raucous. Negative feedback is old news. Locked,
rooftop, in an explosive safe. Yip for missed gaze, yip
for huffed chuckle misplaced, yip for poor words, yip
at yipping for missing responses. Turn the yip off. Who
are we? Yuck. Now, why so meek? Nothing’s permanent.
These thoughts aren’t a choice, oh well, they’re laced
with consequences. I hear I should take the onslaught of
slit under my face; the blender can’t be touched. I can’t
see myself without the mirror. Close analysis never quite
looks at things clearly—yipping, the same for hearing.
Too much focus. Nothing feels real, sunk in this domed
circle of multiple yippers who know too much, yes.
Charge or power off…