The Mass Production of My Individuality

Sweet wind of remembrance

Has forgotten my name.

I, a small piece of a self-indulgent puzzle.

It is not I who makes a difference;

Barely a scratch.

I only serve to justify this;

My existence is for my own enjoyment.

Almost masturbatory in my pursuits.

Selfish fucking sinner,

Bleeder of mediocrity,

Destroyer of good intentions;

But a damn good dancer.

Though I am a brat baby of American excess,

Suckling at the teat of poetic regurgitation,

I feel it is my duty to recognize two things:

That I am a product of my own invention,

And I am flying off of the shelf.