I’m not, really, because
I’m not that gullible and maybe
I should have titled this
I, Narcissist, because
I do notice when
I look at all the things
I wrote or
I’m still writing, how so many begin with
I, or sometimes
I’m, and
I can’t tell which ones they are until
I read them to find out.
I seem to be so full of myself that
I can’t get away from being me that
I’m obsessed with.
I startle myself.
I think
I’m rather like Beatrice Wood who wrote her autobiography,
I Shock Myself, so
I guess
I’m in good company.
I wonder what
I think about that.