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,
only
if I could.
Not to rid myself of any
bad
or any good.
Just so I could move on,
as I know I
should.
But I’ve never really known me,
before
or even now.
Nowhere a why or what,
I’m only more or even how.