Recently, I started writing myself into corners

And writing myself into corners

And writing myself into corners

And writing myself into corners.

 

STOP.

 

There is no way out

For all of myselves

Because these four corners

Signal perfection.

Because I put myself

Into a nice neat box,

Otherwise called a square,

Myself has covered all of these walls

And has been forced to split.

 

Myself,

Myself,

My self,

My. Self.

 

Is splattered and smeared

With so many running inks

In blue and in red

And in black.

Bruised.

Broken.

My self is

Trying to fit around

Trying to fit in

Across the indentions

Of recitation and repletion,

Revelation and repulsion,

Recognition and repetition

Because my self

Cannot pre fix

Something that has

Been “re”done

“re”modeled.

Again.

 

There is no reconstruction

When there is no destruction

And that means

Something must exist

Beyond myself

For my self to fix

And at this point,

I’m not sure if there is.

 

But maybe fixing my self

Isn’t the cause-

It’s the want that keeps on growing.

Growing.

 

Making these walls tighter.

These corners smaller.

Like a baby giant

Reaching his teens

Building up pressure

And stashing it all inside,

Knowing someday

He’s going to turn into a balloon

And it’s either

Float or pop.

 

So instead my self

Will have to wait;

Catch enough “re”s

To start a revolution.

 

I know I will be losing myself

As the corners get tossed away,

But if I can always write myself

I think it’s better that way.