Still Me

 

There’s so much me

in my veins.

Which is curious to

think about, how much

of me is actually

me.

 

All the time,

I’m filled with me, just

pumping and oozing,

flowing and lub-a-dub

dubbing all over the place,

constantly.

 

This pulsing,

crapping, bleeding,

crying, sneezing,

coughing, bag of

flesh and blood,

being me in vast amounts.

 

The voice of me,

in my mind,

saying things, sometimes,

not too kind about me,

and triggering the anxieties

of being me.

 

Electrified matter,

the essence of me,

biologic individuality,

in a sea of the same species,

who are all filled

with themselves, constantly.

 

Until it all stops,

and then, all the me

will cease to be.

And yet, for what it’s worth,

it’ll still be filled

with

me.