The Poetic Self is Different from the Political

I don't know... when did I become a writer...
When did I become willing to be a blank sort of
personality. When did I become so reverential
that I merely observed, didn't make judgment
calls beyond that, in short, when did I become
an asshole. When did I become in tune with
some things, trying at least, so that I fell out
with everything else? When did they ostracize me as
I watched them  do it, saying nothing, what was my
wish for forty days?

When did the social guy stop being social, except when
he had to be as clever background to other people's
social lives, but never the main, the main
attraction, when cut out by God and Gift to be.

Why doeth the writer hone his craft?

When did the writer evoke the lonely David Foster Wallace character as
the botanical of sensitivity?

And almost immediately, things started going sort of wrong for me.  Not to complain,
as the very same things allowed for me
something to write about, as if coincidentally
occasionally.

Hamlet's ghostly father comes and says to him,
I have tales that'll curdle your blood.
Tales of purgatory, or in short,
the bard's own, of trying to keep it together,
of his own suffered hells, matters of
psychology.

That book I wrote...
it had, like Hamlet,
everything in it.  Didn't know, except directly,
that it had.
The artist's removed state,
his wish to find another artist,
just like he.