Unaltered Ego

“I’m not drawing you”

I say as I flip a brush stroke.

It’s no longer her.

I’ve changed this work into

an alter ego,




I flip my tongue

and untwist my fingers

as I look into

a new set of eyes.

They seem innocent,

their passing/imperfect


means nothing,

nothing at all.

I feel bad

about demonizing

this being,

but have I?


A table

that has on one side

what I need,

and on the other,

what I deserve.

balance – balance

The table is round,

like her eyes.

I don’t know which side is which.

The picture’s old namesake

stares into my soul

and says

it is imperfect.

a joke, a joke



A lash

at the innocent picture

has my anger

been misplaced?

Did none of it happen?

Have the last few weeks

been a messed up perception

like this drawing?

Was it simply a play

in the theatre of the world?

We are all players,

but I am a character



My mask breaks

as hers begins to chip.

It is only a picture

of one who no longer

sits across the table from me.

I flew away on metal wings.

So why do the eyes

still haunt me?

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