I am so many me's

Sometimes I can't tell them apart

And sometimes I don't know which me to be.

Are they passing moods or is each one a part of me

That I can't fully become

Nor throw away, no matter how hard I try?

Take right now:

I'm poetic. I'm deep. I would theorize and philosophize on the meaning of life

And love

And words

And pictures

And my inner me would long to take up the paintbrush of the Soul

And brush it across a page

To make your own Soul leap

And live

And love

And read

And see

But the clumsy other me's drag me down and back to Earth

Where people don't care

Or don't have time

Just like I don't have time.

So my inner me wishes to have time and to not have to work and to just paint with Soul all day

But it knows it can't

And someone would get hurt along the way if it did

And besides, there are other me's who would come out into the silence of Soul

And feel lost, because they know they wouldn't belong

So all of me stays right here for the other me's

And a me tries to paint Soul by itself

Even though its life is too short to last.

A new me comes out

And this me is cruder and harder than the soft, special me of Soul

It has a body that it works and uses

And laughs at things too thoughtful

But for some reason I love this me just as much

And other people do, too, because their me is just as calloused as mine

And I wish that they could see that there are other me's in me than this me.

This me is confused at this and wonders silly things that are not Soul

And feels awkward in the dark of the inside me.

Much better is the light of other's me's

And the me gets lonely and abandons the Soul

For a new kind of Soul called Friends

And the inner me is confused

But rides along.

And I shall see

If this me

Is me.

If not,

There are so many other me's

That I know I will have Soul

No matter which me I am.

But I want to be my inner me

As I suppose Everyone does

And I am trying to find it.