I worry about the journal,
of what it may unearth in me,
of what it may encourage,
feeding into self-delusion
an insidious creep of personality
that might as well go fuck itself
for all its lack of insight.
Though insight it might, a different plight
that I can’t (nor shall not) bear;
it gobbles up my words and whims,
and shits out all my care.
Congratulations. You know yourself.
And what a crock of fucking wealth.