In The Mirror
There’s an old man
In the mirror
Staring back at me
and I don’t recognise him
Where did he come from
This impotent imposter
This sheep in wolf’s clothing
What happened to the other guy
The drunk at the mic
Slurring and spilling his guts
His drinks
His fears
The ‘disturbing’ guy
Who didn’t deserve ‘published recognition’
Heckling and judging
The mealy-mouthed poets
The fakes and phonies
Insulting the pretenders to the throne
Whatever happened to that prick
The attitude era brawler
On the microphone
Who didn’t need kayfabe
Because it was all real
Damn real
And maybe there was blood on the microphone
But it was always mine
Always real
I didn’t need to blade
To bleed
When did he become safe to approach
If you didn’t have cleavage
Or at least a free drink in your hand
Where did the polite applause
And fake smiles come from
The meaningless platitudes
The nods and pretense
When did it all become poetry entertainment
There’s an old man
In that mirror
Sober and tired and gray
But every now and then
I think I see a little spark
A fire in his eyes
But I’m never sure
if it’s just
a trick of the light
or if maybe
I’m still in there
Somewhere
© Kami 2026