Potato, Po-Tat-O, Tomato, To-Mat-O
His mouth starts singing: your art built iron bars that squirm with your indecision, and thistles and thorns became the norm that squelched your vibrant vision.
I told myself to take a lesson from the ants and watched their fiery battalions march, march, step with sweat beneath their brows, pause, and bow before the queen without a thought of dismay at the likes of being seen by me.
The mirror, though, is reflecting: Insecurity masked as insufficiency masked as free to do as I please. Undisciplined masked as incapable masked as pitiable me. Laziness masked as busyness masked as artsy.