We are protozoa swimming in a soup of confused existence
And my mind is amoebic slush, trying to fit together pieces
Of a jigsaw puzzle that will never fit. This is the only way I
Can make sense of the bedlam, the confusion of bright fluff
Like friendship and love, why their absence sucks out the
Mitochondria from all our cells leaving us in a static, listless
State we label ‘Depression’, ‘Anxiety’, ‘Loneliness’, ‘Insanity’.
But if we are protozoa then we do not have mitochondria or
The ability to produce complex energy. Guided by a nucleus
Of lofty ambitions and delusions of grandeur we phagocytes
Consume others in our path and recycle their essence to make
Ourselves ‘better’. We then leave our legacy on the world by
Binary fission or budding. This is what writers do. Some can
Rapidly reproduce parts of themselves on paper. But for me,
Writing hurts. I am breaking a part of myself into the world
That cares not whether we consume each other or die tomorrow.
In this apathy it is only the sheer willpower to etch my literary
DNA into this soup of chaos that drives my pseudo-appendages
To extend themselves and cast a shadow long enough to be seen.
In this agony I need the impregnation of inspiration to procreate;
The electric and impassioned touch of a literary muse to spark
The tips of my first words and to keep the subsequent flowing.
Maybe asexual reproduction is not the best way to write after all.
The Brooding Narcissist 