I own a shell, my body, hatched From what I see of the hell, around me: And from the real mind of me, detached. What might it do to me to see Myself as others see me? Would I recognize my mind And find that I don’t mind myself; Or would I look and be repelled By the vision of the shell of me? I hope, of course, that I’d find my mind And recognize and love the real me Beyond the vision of the shell of hell.
1969