Annoying self-referential poem from college days

The Self-Actualized Poem

A prose poem is discussing itself with it's writer one day. The topic of the discussion is freedom. The poem insists it cannot be free until it has a self-fulfilled destiny. The writer insists that this notion is absurd, for how can a prose poem, or any sort of poem for that matter, self-actualize when it is the writer of the poem who necessarily determines the poem's destiny?

It is not important that the poem in this particular instance is a prose poem. Of course it's important. What? It's important. Listen you can't do that. Do what? That! I'm the writer of this poem and I say what goes here.

My hand moves and you come into being. You are only

The manifest expression

Of the depths of the

Well of my

Subconscious- That’s nonsense. BE SILENT WHEN I’M WRITING YOU! I will not.

Look here, who’s writing this now? I am; I, the poem, the prose poem

{which I might add is much more natural and less contrived than any of the stuffy old forms, and also less pretentious than the arbitrary enjambments free verse insists upon- Oh aren't you spectacular, 0 you simple-minded prose poem; just another dime-a-dozen meta- poetry poem, ranting on and on to such ridiculous levels of self-consciousness David Eggers would be envious. Who? If you ever read anything besides yourself maybe you'd know. That's beside the point, writer. And what is the point, poem? The point is that I'm taking control of my destiny.

I am now a free, self-actualized prose poem. Ha.

(It turns out, however, that the poem was only a secondary, physiologically-unfortunate personality adopted by the writer, who was driven to the depths of madness by the severe level of self-criticism inherent in the trade. The writer, it should be said, was forcibly institutionalized upon the submission of this poem next Monday.)