What's In a Voice? A Monologue

I am a voice, or so I say,
I make my way to this empty page
What do I do but mouth the starts...
Of a hypothetical me-and-you

I start out with an impulse, an urge to scratch
I arise from the incoherent babblings,
with mom and dad gazing down, in pleasurable rapture
waiting for the voice to say something coherent
in a language they know, a loving phrase of recognition:
such words as 'daddy' or
'no' or 'know' rounded off with a solid, upper-case O:
the lyric of the surprised, the bald spot of a monk's shaved head
what once was mere sound rounding up
into vowels and consonants, cascading into commas
and well-advised periods.
tapering off into spacious silence
after the pregnant pause, the muted exclamation

funny how when I was in school, I was taught the 26 characters
(Form)
and I paired the twenty six of them into longer nuances
(Sensation)
screams sighs, whiffs, the heavy force of gravity on the balls of feet
(Perception)
avoiding the designated bullies, the authorities, who pound for pound
(Volition)
choose your fate in carefully parceled marks, marks  the spot
(Consciousness)
the thought that I am you and You are not me. And I go here
thus far I am a here and not a there.

But You being there and not Here, the heir
to a different School Form, perhaps a one more Advanced and higher one than I
so I feel the stirrings of a new found tie, binding me downward
(and inward)
the tie of wanting to succeed, or better still, wanting to survive
it seems there is only so much room for success on this tiny rock of the sun
only so many to get the promotion or stay on the ball
so I fall
into the insecurity of being only this tiny lower case 'i', muted cries
and lies, sighs, and only the occasional highs
the wiles of jealousy impinging on nervous eyes
(I's that are too plural to see together in one big whole)

so do I choose to rebel or distinguish myself
or perhaps better still extinguish "myself"
who is this voice anyway, but a passing thing of word and number?
an eye-sore, or an I-sore, a bump in the flesh of passing night
a knife through the back of a prickly pair
of yearning eyes

who am I?
what sees with these human eyes?
who speaks and who cries?
who speaks truth and who lies?
where lies this truth?
who said it?
who said?
who?