Poetry

Détente

Searing combustions bombard my insides in a fit from two things that don’t mix having to share the same space.

I hold them inside me in an unstable alliance that neither wish to hold.

One part of me wishes to rip my skin off and be free, smoke, drink, fuck, and spew out any words or actions I desire as they come in to my head.

The other side wishes to work a 7-5 without complaints, not have any urges or desires, and live a clean, by-the-book existence where I return home every day with a smile feeling satisfied.

I live in a waring paradigm of my own making, for at any point I could relinquish my philosophy, yet I cannot do the same with my urges.

And yet, I do not wish to be only urges. I wish to be as by-the-books as one can be with such feverish, obsessive, addictions.

To understand oneself is to understand the paradox of trying to exist with both features. It is an unending struggle, something intrinsic to life itself. One cannot escape it, only accept it and hold a détente.

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