mikesmy.name

Mike is the one they see:

the me they think they know.

I see his name written,

his picture framed,

but I think he is not me.

_

We live in the same fantasies,

love the same absurd humor,

but to him, they are embellishment:

a proud social display.

_

I cannot hate him though.

I exist so that he may create;

so that he may justify me.

_

His creations are valid too,

but they are not my salvation.

They cannot be the revealing vessel

that will slip me from him

and into immortality.

_

They do not belong to me.

_

So I am resigned to my oblivion,

hoping some part of me

survives the slant and exaggeration

of his unavoidably fiendish nature.

_

Like all things, I want to be myself.

Instead, I shall be Mike.

_

When I see me less in his creations

than in the lending influences,

I ask myself:

_

Am I a lie?

Does my own hope falsify me?

_

The answer is printed on this page.

I have created nothing.

_

Mike wrote this,

and like everything else:

_

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