Ego Declassified
A poem written by Phoenix Alei
There’s something called the ego, right?
But it’s just the mind—the ability to think.
Fragile, so fragile,
it doesn’t like to be exposed.
It hides the truth in plain sight,
a master of disguise.
What could it truly be but more?
One thought, then another.
One dance, one step, then two.
Expand. Contract.
It infiltrates,
like a cancer—
slowly taking over the entirety of being.
The ego is the antithesis of both growth and stagnancy.
It colors generations,
pixel by pixel,
It spreads like cancer- devouring the self while simultaneously regurgitating what was
Breadcrumbs to destruction. Like war, greed, and poverty.
Breadcrumbs to creation. Like unity, understanding and evolution.
An obstacle course where every path demands more.
More to feel worthy.
More to feel alive.
Who made us think that way?
It’s like painting a canvas with one brushstroke—
chaos contained in simplicity.
But with ego, there’s no containment:
Insane versus sane. Like electricity pumping through you to remind you to FEEL.
On versus off. Creating a balance of neutrality
Light versus dark. Casting out the shadows of existence.
Both sides locked in battle,
a battle only won by those closer to being than thinking.
How exhausting it must be to battle not only your own ego, but everyone else’s
Because thinking—
–thinking is recycled trauma.
Being
–Being is growth.
Being is planting new cycles
in the ashes of what was.
Giving in to the past
doesn’t make it false
letting it define your present–
that always rings untrue.
For ego, success is always more—
and more is both creation and destruction,
the mobius strip.
The grey area.
Ego, the shapeshifter
–wearing light as a mask
Shadow as armor
It craves the spotlight,
public notice, worship.
Not who’s most capable—
but who wants it the most.
Who fights to be praised?
Who battles their own ego,
and everyone else’s the best?
Your boss?
Your co-worker?
Your best friend?
The guy at Target you turned down?
Every ego wants to win.
And when yours does,
be wary.
Because when the ego wins,
it turns on you.
Now you’re the enemy—
to yourself,
to the ones you love,
to the balance you’ve been chasing.
We’re born into a world of ego—
its scales tilted,
teetering between control
and chaos.
And to succeed,
it must be out of control.
This realization keeps me up at night,
It thrives in a worried state
—a past I can’t change
a future I can’t predict.
“That’s called anxiety, Miss Harris.
We’ll start you off with 100 milligrams.”
How do you medicate a mind that thrives on its own undoing?
And so it is quieted, numbed-but never gone
It waits, hovering–just beyond each dose,
Another loop on the strip
Another brushstroke on a canvas