The beginning of an incomplete poem...I'm sick, so I'm writing about a fever. Fever The mirror must be broken again, I'm thinking, Cause here I am smiling, and that Same Damn Blank expression stares back. Bed is my new home, Has been so for three days, And makes no promises of sleep, Not even of comfort. Just me and the covers, Alone, just never completely. I've never felt afraid talking to myself, But the conversation, Between various odd topics, Polite distractions, And the not-so-polite ones, Unfailingly addresses the tireless question of What's in the mirror. More like "What's left there?" And on And on And on And on goes the world