Who Is My ' Not-I'

It’s a tough , tough call Too..too many things to recall A few sticking on as remembrance. Too horrid or huge or humorous A bundle of points ponderously fall, While I try encrypting into my scrawl. Hours , long to sleep away So, I’ve got to wake up often in a day. Being a windbag and sanctimonious at that Is my singular respite In oxygen- short peaks of silence. Cicatrix of self is what I see as substance Even as I am blind to wounds of life. Who is to blame for my rot and strife? Lack of hands to deliver Or surfeit of hands seeking succor. Bury me please atop my tedium Or the Everest of encomiums Still you can rile or rebuke me, as I stick out my head Who am I..who am I Question that is great, but it flatters Who is the not-I , trickier, is what matters.