The “I” that is not me

This I is not me.
I write this I for you.
But you see with your eye, my I as me.

After you’ve read my poem,
you ask me how I am.
I’m fine of course again.

What I write is not
the same as what is
written about me.

Why then if you know me,
me is all you see
when I am writing fictionally?

The thoughts are mine its true.
The words of course are mine too.
But the person in the story isn’t me or you.

That’s the description of fiction:
Truth immersed in story.
A falsely true depiction.

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