I wish there was a word for my
mixed-up,
leftover insides.

I am my own Temple of Doom.
I will or I won't
Bring you to swoon.
Get me the spoon.
I am Captain: Ben and Jerry's
Vessel be my scurvy.
Mastering epitome, feeling marscapone:
I am the color of your liver.

If I put on a hoodie, I feel more "me", but where was I left?
Where am I grazing?
Surely it's on greener pastures?

Am I dead?
Who are you?
Is this what we're all searching for?
Separation?

I ran the decathalon; choke down my python.
There's a fire in your mouth.
Let me put it out.

I received my official
(unofficial)
unsolicited
free of charge
diagnosis today. From a stranger
on a bus.
Seems I lack balance,
everything in perfect portions
salty and sweet
wet and dry
meaning and irreverence
acceptable and perverse
a place of equilibrium and symmetry.
I find this state - unsurprising
Painfully predictable
transitory
a beacon for chaos.
Disorder only exists
against the theoretical backdrop
of order.
Nature unrepentantly marches towards
disorder
chaos
unbalance
asymmetry.
To hold balance, one must
shut the mind - close the soul
to new ideas and experiences.
Lest the delicate state
of transition be undone. Completed.
Balance is just a wobbling bubble.
driven aimlessly by currents of air.
Until the sphere inevitably - pops.
Entropy prevails,
We already knew it would.
always has,
always will.
Chaos snacks on tasty morsels of order.
Like little hor de' ourves
served on a shiny tray
at an impromptu soiree
universally,
eternally.