Me

I fear the things that make me, me.

The way I look,
Figments and remnants of,
a childhood long since forgotten.
By the flashes of bones and blood,
mixed in to scar the body that is me.

The way I act,
warning signs of a predetermined psychosis.
Self diagnosed to be lost in the habits of
predetermined belligerence.
meekness a quality desired but uninvited,
in the making of me.

The way I feel,
Centered then plastered down to the
ideal that this is not how others feel.
Therefore, I am wrong on all counts.
The lies that be, feel as natural as
the mask I wear everyday.

Look, act, feel,
Principals we all face.
Faces we fear insides.
Inside the husk of self.
The things that make me, me.