Who am I?

My reflective skin

Mirrors your perception of me

Four or five people perceptions

Fuse together,
Muddling that clear sense of self

Whomever I encounter,
my voice becomes modulated

That self,
The one wearing the guise of my “self”
Becomes indistinguishable
From the other persona that
Others perceive

Am I a man, a woman, or just human?
Why does my self become detached
From this hollow idea of a man
Without the dimension

That thinks, extrapolates, and dreams
Beyond these arbitrary limits.


It is my mind
This raging, jarring machine
Whose sole purpose lies
With fabricating this distinct sense of  “self”
Who’ll be multiplied in different disguises
For the consumption, or respect of others

Who am I?
I’ve never ventured to scale the heights of “Mont Blanc”
To reveal the hidden truth

Beneath the thorny shrubs

Surrounding the perimeter of “Tintern Abbey”
Imaginatively residing at the summit of
This grand, enigmatic mountain

Will death set me more free,

or make me forget
the lustrous skies, the paling moon,
and even the burning pain which

Deprives me of my complete senses?

How can oblivion be at the

Seemingly endless stream of thoughts?
What is their origin, and where will they go?
Was I lost before, then found
Only to be lost again?
Can nothing greater than tangibility

Rescue me from this
Alarming awareness of my

Fading Existence?

On the exterior shell of myself,

Tears spring from my eyes
Imaginary bands of blood

Drip down me
Inexplicably, I envision Christ

Within the space of a mind

Which resolutely doubted
His message, and even his existence

“Who am I? Who am I?”
This question reverberates through me

Silence ensues

This is my prayer till eternity

Where it won’t matter any longer

If I’m a man, a woman
Or just this self-conscious mind

Slowly vanishing from sight and self