that most candid criticism of the self

things are running wild and not in what you wish them
all to be
there is this rage
of self against self

some 'selves' are running against you
and some are exploding before your very face
indistinguishable
untouchable
yet there is this sense of
i am i
that one is me too
that i am some pieces scattered
and that there is also another self
that keeps gathering
and assembling parts into a whole

ugly and not worth the watch
these are
your hands spread your fingers
just for a show
like a peacock at the peak of its heat

you feel that there are storms coming inside your chest
you wait for tornadoes and boats and calls for help
then the calm
that is the idea of your thesis

and
antithesis
a woman a man
a peace of quiet and some chunks
of motors chomping
on a stretch of day

what for? you are that one too
that seeks self-destruction
you wait
for another explosion to include your whole being
you lift the weight of the sighs of righteousness

lost and never found, here is this man,
and yet
you reap anger for those who wait and see

you are smiling still and then moving away