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I’ve never really known me,
though I’ve always been right here.

I’m never really lonely,
but that-
apparently- I fear.

Now you don’t have to tell me
what I long
to hear.

And you don’t have to sell me
on a heaven
or a hell,

‘cause I’m as close to being me
as far as
anyone can tell.

I’ve got a pocket full of matches,
and a memory of wood.

I’d burn it down right now,
if I could.

Not to rid myself of any
or any good.
Just so I could move on,
as I know I

But I’ve never really known me,
or even now.
Nowhere a why or what,
I’m only more or even how.