She Is Not Me

There’s a voice in my head,

an imposter of sorts,

she pretends to be me

or one of my close cohorts.

She blabbers and yammers

all through the day,

the concept of rest,

not her habitual way.

Looking over my shoulder,

she likes to observe,

her critical voice

can often be heard.

She shoulds

and she judges,

second guesses

and nudges.

Pretending to be helpful,

she can’t seem to stop,

until she’s distracted

and her bubble goes pop.

Aha, I caught you,

you voice in my head,

pretending to be me

until I go to bed.

When wisdom shines though,

she’s apt to get quiet,

wisdom’s tap on my shoulder

quells her loud riot.

My mind settles and I see her,

a puddle of air.

It’s clear she’s not me,

I no longer care.

I don’t have to listen,

her words not of value,

an unhelpful energy

with a tone that is sour.

The heart and soul of me

is not the voice of her.

It shines through in my essence,

no voice to concur.

The spirit of me

doesn’t live in her words.

I don’t know where she comes from,

keeping me from being heard.

My power lives in a knowing

and not believing what I hear,

seeing through her energy,

leaving behind the fear.

If she is not me,

“Who am I?,” I ask.

More than a body,

more than a past.

Perhaps I’m a soul,

wearing a body as a coat,

seeing past the illusion,

filled with desire and hope.

There’s still a voice in my head,

an imposter for sure.

I’m not fooled by her antics,

or drawn in by her lure.

I am not her,

she is not me.

I’m much bigger than a voice

could possibly be.