I’m not me.  Not whom I seem to be.
Can’t identify with my mind, my thoughts, my feelings.

(“What else is there?” asks the myth of modern man.)

Though I fully own them,

I know they are capable of the Lie
And being lied to.

So I can’t let them absorb my entirety

Must acknowledge that my mind can be lost,

My thoughts can be scattered,

My feelings can be crushed,

And let nothingness rush

In and wash me clean

From time to time.

So if I’m not me, who am I?

I’m the creature ever pushed to be born,

I’m the doubter always tortuously torn,

I’m the fight that will never die.