Is this me?

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?