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I see him in reflective surfaces
and I can't help but to follow
I see him credit card receipts
and I can't help but to follow
I see him in napkin poetry
and I can't help but to follow
Follow him on lyrical sojourns
Follow him into fits of joy
Follow him into the shower
Follow him on commercials
He is an outright media whore
All the time, every damn day
I'd love to be just like him
But I hate they way he lives
Why does he not see himself?
Why does he not listen to me?
Why does he ignore the girls?
Why is he stuck in his own head?
Why do the words do his bidding?
I hate him, despise him, loathe him

and yet

When he is inspired I have no choice
but to follow wherever it is he goes
I see his face smiling at my reflection
How long have I been here in this room
talking to myself like a basket case?
I should write this all down and call it
Poetry for the Synapses Disconnected
I should do it before I start laughing
and forget to stalk myself some coffee