a poem about the self

The self demands satisfaction and control.
If there isn’t one there, the self invents a soul.
The self creates a copy of itself for its own pleasure.
The copy is the criteria for how the self is measured.
The self knows the copy means that the end is almost here.
Looking back, the beginning still seems to be quite near.
Will it benefit the self to repeat everything it heard?
Then perhaps the self won’t need a soul in lieu of words.
Are there enough words for us to measure out the self in full?
No, there are just enough to give us the illusion of control.

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