Vulnerable Self
by Odin Roark

Suckling the tit of power’s engorged conceit,
fame-junkies stay hooked on their insecurity,
like a populous of emphysema victims
pulling behind their processed oxygen,
the need to keep their bubble of make-believe pumping.

Ambition often longs for more frequent feeding times,
those memorable moments of panic when the applause meter,
the cradled effect of being held close to the nipple of sustenance,
looks as if it’s waning.

From craving’s captive infancy,
through childhood and the perpetual adolescence of identity,
staying in lock step for mealtime ticket punchers
in order to reach life’s grown up food, remains elusive,
forever teasing us toward a different kind of gratification,
unaware the identity-vacuum is the single place no one escapes,
once we have sentenced ourselves.

How alluring the entrapment,
even as it touts a way to escape,
convincing the fettered emotions
that an improved fix-it plan exists,
extending beyond the delusional captivity of ego
and the fame, fortune and power imaginings.

Unfortunately

Quite often, at some point,
the notoriety we thought was ours,
the wealth we felt entitled to,
and the supremacy we felt was earned,
is taken back, lifted from our grasp,
leaving us wailing from within as we revisit
the perpetual vulnerable self… once again.