17th Ode to Myself

This poem is a masterpiece, I'll tell you how I know.
I've hardly even started, yet the words already glow
With genius, intelligence, and most of all, you see;
It's by me.

My work, it has a radiance. Oh, surely you can tell.
The people here won't buy it; well that's fine, I wouldn't sell.
So somewhere in my bedroom, all my best creations lay
On display.

A novel not quite finished and a poem pages long,
I'll cause grown men to weep with just the lyrics to my song.
Sonatas, paintings, limericks, a sonnet and heaps more,
On my floor.

My little tabby nestles in my third Ode to Myself,
And pictures of my countenance abound upon my shelf.
My mirror on the ceiling, and another on the ground...
...All around...

I know I should be happy with what I've achieved, and yet,
It's difficult to live up to the standards I have set.
I find my raw, wild talent still just doesn't seem enough.
Life's so tough.

So I walked into the city, where loads of people are,
I climbed a high-rise building there, to prove that I'm a star.
They said "What are you doing?", though I'm sure they really knew,
And I flew.