RECYCLED ME

Who is this me that one claims to be?
Is it the I or the eye of my begging’s cry?
Freely fleeing from the gleefully escaped me?
Or that I try to be sly in defining what’s “my”?

Where does it end or can I only tend to blend
in being unique and seeking better technique
while bending? Descending into an ultimate dead end;
this antique is a streak of tweaking’s weak.

Will I still grow or even find my soul
in this mess of stress and quests for less?
Or undergo buckling beneath turbulent flow
that suppresses the recesses of what I’d digress?

Am I less archetypal in this final cycle?
Or a less recycled, final (spiteful) title?

@kwirb #30Days30Sonnets
September 12th 2015.