Poetry
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The I Convention

Standing beside myself
I gaze with contempt
As I witness the things that I do

Sitting inside myself
I feel like a wimp
A fraud who himself isn’t true

On Sunday from soapbox
He tells a great plan
With whistles and chorus and bells

But mid Monday morning
He’s once again man
Quite certain he’ll wind up in hell

And I in the audience
Stare with disgust
While the I two rows down shouts, “Amen!”

And the I over there
Bows his head full aware
Of mistakes that he’s made once again

Sitting beside myself
I offer an arm
For the tears that refuse to be shed

Standing inside myself
I realize the harm
All the things that I shouldn’t have said

The I at the pulpit
Lets out a great roar
Campaigning for never again

An I in the audience
Replies, “We want more”
And the I two rows down shouts, “Amen!”

And standing afar
In the corner alone
Is the I that they all want to be

Weeping and waiting
And watching his own
And wondering, “What happened to me?”