Is it me?

Is it me?
When I walk across the roaring freeway,
Idle thought of becoming pleasnt roadkill,
For an ever so hungry media moguls wet dream.
Is it me?
When I overdose by my choice of prime poison,
Lying stark naked and foaming at the mouth,
Waiting for the flourescent men to tighten the jacket.
Is it me?
My insanity is the best refractive view within,
Seeing what cannot be repressed in modesty,
Thoughts of disillusioned needs which consume mercilessly?