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A Song Not of Myself

I will write of myself and sing of myself.
I will breathe of myself and dream of myself.
I will celebrate my self-centered yawp,
And reap my self-thinking crop.
All assume my assumptions and grow in this soil,
And are anointed with the same self-oil.

As I sit down to write, I find myself a hero.
As I lay down to sleep, I fancy I’m Nero –
King of my castle, and Lord of my empire,
Holder of destinies and all that inspires.
My thoughts run steady on their track,
And always find their way back, to this cul de sac.

When will I make the circle, and learn the blessedness
Of self-forgetfulness?
Only when I find a more worthy object for reflection,
Will I know the expulsive power of a new affection,
And find a song not of myself,
But of mental health, and love itself.

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