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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