the illusion of self


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It’s me, it’s not me, it’s me. What is it?

I am angry, I am scared, I am dull, I am cautious.

I am afraid, I dwell.

Rebel to what I think is me, the truest form of me.

But it is not, it is just an illusion.

A splendid challenge of the mind

For me to cherish the truest nature of all.

The one I am not even sure I posses

But it’s there, no matter the odd feelings and the rush

of blood to my head.

It’s me it’s not me, it’s me. What is it?

How can one define? How can one see the difference?

How can one adjust to the jazz of it all.

Be still. Be still and receive the flood of calmness and joy

That comes from accepting it all.

Not as a challenge, nor as a fight, but as a battle

To where one will demise the true friend of it all

The one who we are deepest in ourselves, the one we

Collect, respect, listen to and adjust to in all its colorful self.

It’s me it’s not me, it’s me. What is it?

It is not you, it is it. The it that corrupts,

the one who scares you, who impedes you

to breath and to speak, the one who cannot be explained

the one who can only be confusing and abusing.

I want to be right. I want to fight, I want to feel constantly

perfectly bliss, no problems, no doubts, never distraught.

I want it to be without a doubt an obstacle a fault and a

draught, dismay of it all, I want it to be cool.

Intense, felt, immense, obstacle-less.

Easy, breezy, panic-less, without distress, amicable,

Passionable, but I always forget, it is not so difficult to fret

to feel in dismay, completely disarray, lost, confuse and

forever abused by the self and the mind and all I would

like would a short break.

One of a minute or so, to distract my worries and

catch my breath for once and for all in acceptance of it all.

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