There is myself and there is I, as they are two in one
And although they are the same, from myself I run
I try, and try, and try, but with myself I stay
And I will always try, but will never get away
I see myself and wonder, "Is it really I?"
And although I know the answer's yes, I still ask, "Why?"
This thing, myself, is far from my comprehension
It makes no sense; it has unclear intentions
It gets me nowhere, except for in trouble
People are mad at it, and it mad at me, its double
That thing is not what I want to be
It takes nothing seriously
It does things right when it shouldn't
At the exact times that I just wouldn't
It puts a pin in it, or throws it up on the shelf
Yes this monster puts things off, this monster called myself
And I hate myself for all of this and for all that it has done
It has found the bliss in ignorance; from myself I run.
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