Myself and I

Myself and I war constantly,
conflicting traits extant.
Myself a humble little lamb;
oft times I wants to rant.

Myself takes gentle by the hand
on peaceful paths in spring.
I yanks the arm with no regard
and makes the shoulder sting.

And sometimes I will see myself
wait patiently all right,
while I has no regard for time,
and longs to pick a fight.

Myself eyes I with due regard,
an empathetic chap.
Yet I in off the handle fly
affords myself a slap.

“Oh I,” myself will say aloud,
“Why do you rile so?”
Then I looks at myself and says,
“That is for me to know!”

Myself and I are on a ship
adrift upon sea.
Despite the swells, they must abide
because they both are me.


24 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
2-25-16