Jokes I play on myself are imaginative.
If it weren’t for my trick self, I’d have none at all.
Some say I should get rid of it, But I cannot,
Because it thinks like I do. I’m all that it’s got.
Mostly it takes the big roles. I’m left with the small.
I ask myself if this is the right way to live.

But, alas, it can’t answer. It thinks everything
Is an intricate puzzle it only can solve.
When it can’t, it’s frustrated, as if it exists
As a viable entity. On it persists
In its ‘it-centric’ world where all things must revolve.
Onto some sense of purpose this person must cling.

So, there’s no getting rid of this subsequent dude
Come about like a tattoo etched over decades
Of abuse of his surface – a time tapestry
Of eternal becoming. The ink runs through me
But shows up not through thick skin. Freely it pervades
And presents as my ego. As such, I am screwed.

I end up doing nothing and leaving it to
That which is ever conscious and omni aware.
I can’t grasp nor rid myself of all I become.
I alone cannot get it. The getting comes from
Consciousness Universal which is everywhere.
There’s no need to get anything but a damned clue.