Like Echo

I give birth to these,
The spawn of my Narcissus --
Oh, would that they were pretty
to join our dead, vain circus.

But they're pools of light --
Reflecting cruel insides,
As I spew and sputter these
Reprocessed, bland "I tried"s

And is it really true
That the work defines its maker?
For I'm a spineless girl,
A selfish ink-partaker

Because I need some love --
Yes, even wretched me,
I must have affection,
Else embrace insanity.