This is a poem about poetry. I'm not really sure what it means, so you're probably supposed to come up with whatever your imagination tells you. Don't take it as advice, or even mild amusement... It's self-expression and nothing more.

throwing pain to the wind
having calamities without style
such is my life, for a while
I've been a self-observed relic.

Swallowing myself whole
in the ruptured nature
of mere immortals, comparing myself
to gods among men.

Eating their bullshit like Vonnegut--
breakfast is a meal that I skip
without remorse. Hearing their voices
penetrating shadows of former lives

passing up masks created by tribes
long-forgotten by time,
by maniacal plans of forlorn laughter

Eleciting responses from unknown subjects
Little Albert never objected
to irrigated streams of confusion
presented by doctors without a clue
about the workings of the mind
but now Little Albert's out of time.

Inspired by that guy with a hat,
words escape from my atmosphere
set free by an accidental instigator

flying at me like an arrow,
my thoughts are more narrow
than I'd have liked.

losing connections between body and mind,
soul and head,
my freakishly devilish eyes
playing word games with intelligence.