I discovered a few snippets that I wrote some years ago. They are somewhat unhappy in nature, but I enjoyed the way I wrote them, so thought I'd share them here despite their dark tone. Here is the first:

I sit within myself, watching the world pass.

I observe its incredible delicacy and detail,
An unimaginable painting, a masterpiece of motion,
Its clockwork dancing to a tune I cannot hear.

I see it all around, and I am amazed
But it is not where I am. I sit apart
Enjoying its magnificence but unable to touch it,
Unable to feel the gritty reality between numbed fingers.

I sit within myself, watching myself pass.
I see my body moving to patterns and programs
Infinitely complex. My mind, too, is moved
By a piper's tune that's far beyond my reach.

I try: a nudge here and a suggestion there,
but I am not myself. I can only observe myself
as though I were something separate.
I am never truly present within my own body.

It is, and I am, but We are not.