Proud Richard was blessed with a slick wick.
With Snapchat he’d click, click, and click.
But finally he learned,
After each spurn and spurn,
Ain’t no one be wantin’ poor Dick’s pic.
I examine my failures at home.
Just faux pas, for which I atone.
I see no success,
Yet smile; Acquiesce.
Familiar impostor syndrome.
“Philosophy,” cawed out the magpie,
“And selflessness, I claim to live by.
But in truth it’s for naught,
For my soul has been bought:
Without my silver, I would die.”
You have to hit the ball from where it lies. But you don’t need to use the same club. Or, if you think deeply about it, even a club at all.
Reframe? Reform? Reimagine?