The Self

Of the self, I think not of the soul, nor not of what makes one feel whole, for in the self we lie, idly allowing thoughts go by, unnoticed as it may lead, to something else entierly, a prisoner of the self, is the worst of all, utterly blinded to their fall, no grace can help these feeble minds, that torture themselves all the time, thinking thoughts of happiness, when never understanding bliss, the arrow that's shot, and ment to miss, does the prisoner of the self admit, if only they could submit, to the understanding of, that everything below and above, can be found not in the self, but rather to look inward for the help, that leads one to eternal bliss, and finally understanding happiness.