my careful superego, since childhood, is convinced that my ego will be famous someday,
so she records and states her questions and queries in mock interviews,
being fully in control of her own emotions as the id / ego spills over,
gushing about her hopes of being Best New Artist at the Grammys,
not rushing stories of the blows, the sting of arrows when the ego is wounded
by herself and/or others; she will recount the notes written down, the wounds
and verbal diarrhea the id has written and hidden away, the happy/down days,
the dark nights without stars, the bars and cars and lovers lost, at what cost?
the stroke to one’s self, the moldy moments left rotting on the shelf,
dreams gained and lost, revamped, renewed, love and losses true,
the binges, the hinges, the windows open and closed, the dogs hosed,
the dry cats who stick around, the friends who dick around and play along
and they start to sing your favorite songs without any reason at all–
thick and thin, the ego’s losses and wins, the sins committed under duress,
saved by confessing the id’s wrongs to God and to superego,
who did or thought about doing all the things that ego has described in detail.
superego could wail and flail but chooses not to;
she will report and reflect as if the ego was a true sister, a comrade-in-arms,
a star-in-the-making, hopefully eventually waking up her realization
that fame is almost impossible to possess, money is ephemeral,
visibility is food for the masses, and importance is only possible with one’s self.