Love Pomes are for the birds

I

Bob Dylan once sang that his love was like some raven at his window, with a broken wing.

I used to think of me that way.

I wanted to help me.

Me slapped my hand away.

Some people don’t want to be helped.

Some don’t need it.

Perhaps I am a raven at me’s window.

I have been broken in many places.

II

I love tracing my fingers along me’s profile,

His arms,

Back,

Through his hair.

Is that why I keep going back to me?

I me my

I me mine

I me mine.

Me is talking about

I me mine.

Me has some pictures of Sydney at his place.

“I’ve got some etchings to show you.”

Me has a perfect profile,

Unlike I,

Whose nose has been broken

Twice.

III

Hobbes and Descartes

Are duking it out.

Ladies and gentlemen,

In the Red Corner, we have

The Master of Materialism

THOOOOOMAAAAAAAAS HOOOOOOOOOOBES!!!

And in the Blue Corner, we have

The Duke of Duality

RENEEEEEEEEEEE DEEEEEEEEESCAAAAAAAARTES!!!

They are battling about whether or not we are composed of more than the

Corporeal.

I me mind

I me mind

I me mind.

We have a winner, by unanimous decision,

I think, therefore I exist.

IV

I am duking it out with I.

Does me matter to I?

Do I matter to me?

Constant questions.

On a Cartesian plane,

I mentally trace fingers on

My imaginings of me.

Does me think of I?

Right now, he is incorporeal

Impression on the brain of I.

Until, once again me is corporeal.

And, I will again have to write about feelings for me