I am I,
a farrago of heap, gargantuan,
of myself.
Aglow with my colossus vanity,
driven by my monstrous
avalanche
towards my ambitions,
I, in-kneed before my impuissant ego.

Plunging into deeps and shoals of thoughts
about myself,
I have killed my emotions,
and succumbed to my servitudes.
And thus, have swallowed last drops of shame.
I reject the echoes from the rational
world,
I, one with the lemurs, who talk my language,
I, a part of limping
stories that gaze, helplessly,
into anfractuous shadows.

I am I.
Hidden,
quiescent vultures blind
my faith in my interior being.
I, a multivalent crowd of myself, making me
mad and ugly but
acceptable.

Not quivering before illogic,
I do yield to unrealities
toying with bigger unrealities.
Wearing numerous looks,
I nauseate intellectually
amid my resonating voice.
And search, desperately, the one in me.
"Barabas, Barabas, Barabas,"
deeply embedded.("......" Christopher Marlowe in Jew of Malta)

I am I,
with neither sense nor sensibility,
neither vision nor grace,
still I explore within my explosions,
hopelessly agile and helplessly
awful.
I have a delightfully active “I”
purring to me, incessantly,
about my frowning ego,
never going tippy.

I have neither “greatest completeness, with
all the incidental consequences” nor do I have
“entire truthfulness”
still my “self-perception” hounds me
as does hound an eagle a rat.("......." Kafka in Diaries)

My arrogance,
groovy,
deranges me so pathetically,
I live,
continually,
amid my life alone,
flickering, occasionally,
calmed down by the fury within.

I have a buried conscience
ejaculating about itself
as I stay awake,
and again about itself,
as slumber steals upon me,
realizing not “people being naturally full
of themselves when they have nothing else in themselves.” (" " Joseph Addison)

I am I,
unstirred within my mental torpor,
fabulously piteous,
but perfectly caged, firmly
within the frills of my orotund, dead shadow.

PS-- This poem is dedicated to those who cannot step out of themselves.