spill

I'm falling into myself,
Collapsing to my knees.
Cracking open like an eggshell,
ready to release.
Is pain a sign of insanity?
Is pleasure the perfect friend? 
I can tell the truth,
But I can also make it bend. 

I’m running like a soldier, 
Picking battles in the streets.
The devil on my shoulder,
An angel waiting in the wings.
I’m fueled by my ego.
It cradles me to sleep.
Maybe I’m a pessimist --
Do you think that makes me weak?

I’m not one to write rhyme poetry. I think I’m bad at it honestly. Maybe it’s because I learned the basics of poetry in elementary school where kids are taught to view poems as one dimensional: rhyme serving as both structure and purpose. I broke out of that box later on in high school when I found freedom in creative expression. Now, most of my poetry is entangled in prose, a relationship I welcome openly; It’s something of an innate instinct, a cosmic bond that compels me to exist under its spell in full surrender. I do have my moments, though, where rules fall to the wayside and exceptions find their place.

This particular piece came to me while I was playing around with words for fun. I suppose I was tapping into an unseriousness I don’t typically explore, and it turned out to be worthy enough (in my eyes) to share. Despite it’s simplicity, the words are impactful. I feel each and every one of them, large and small. The more I read it, the deeper I fall into it’s story blending words into worlds. And, I believe in the poem’s point: that the conjoining of conflicts — ignoring truth and pleading for compromise — ultimately pieces together a paradox of contradictions, breeding those whose moral seeds remain unsown.