I wish

that instead of shaking,
my legs could know
which step to skip
and which to step.
Like how a tree,
it stretching towards the sun,
but gravity pulls it back.
One half of it desperately
clinging on to the familiar,
the origin while the other
if hell bent on reaching
somewhere far, somewhere
where it remains unrestrained
by the claws
of its seed
pulling it home.
The familiar
tug of war of
not knowing whether to
despise or
desire oneself
whether to be proud
of not giving in
or to be proud
of being brave enough
to face the thought of
giving up.
Indecision,
a decision which
is the easier road
to slowly wind down on.
And as you fall
into that whirlwind
it rips you apart,
worse than the
tug of war of the soul
or the dispute within
the heart.
It’s the heist of sanity,
the detachment from reality,
which is an attachment
to the permanent
chaos, which
is now in the
nature of one
who couldn’t decide
to be whole
or a half.