What is this me, this self,
that I construct that also lives
with the flashing surprises of anger,
fear, vulnerability, concern and darkness
that shoot unexpected out of strange crevices?
I keep going ‘cause I must,
and I shift this fluid self to be
the show for any occasion; but
the body throws up the the
the gnawing creep of age
that takes the self’s construction
to the bitter thought of death,
or worse, the signs of decline.
Yes, what is this self that I craft
for others but not myself?—the
put-ons, neatness and pretence,
the savvy line said at the right time
and place—what is this house of
repute that I have build that I
don’t like living in at all?
And the construction is about
what might be and about the
approvals that drive the world
and helps me survive, pay the bills,
and be what I believe I must be
as a social being of worth.
What is this me, this self,
when my conscience speaks
against it and says that
all is not right, and the
world is not well, and our ways of
being have to change but there
seems no way to move?
17/7/2019