There’s another me I’ve yet to see.
And this other me won’t let this one be.
Both see with my eyes and screw with my head.
But only one’s good, the other better off dead.
Never certain whom will wake,
or the trouble they will make.
Their highs often go way, way too far,
their lows always leaving a scar.
I need to know from where this comes,
who eats cake and who gets crumbs?
This rollercoaster must soon stop,
but then a merry-go-round I will hop.
I’m forcing this poem for a change,
may not be good but surely strange.
And maybe someday we can all agree,
whom the f*** is the real me.