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Poem
I often wonder,
In those fragile moments between dream and waking,
If what I know of good,
And what I I know of evil are what creates the complexity that is me.
Do the two intertwine,
Compacted together so they form some semblance of normality?
Or if they are opposing forces,
Neither winning in a battle of dominance over my psyche.
The later of these two appears to be the case,
Because I'm always the same,
But so very different after each and every passing moment.
Peering inside myself,
I imagine that this is what I would see:

I can be shallow as a puddle,
Growing ever smaller under the summer sun.
Or deep as an ocean trench,
Teeming with mystery.
I can be childish as a girl on her first day of school,
At first too scared to let go of her mother,
And then off making friends with everyone nearby.
Or I can be wise as the old woman,
Seeing so much more of the world in seconds,
Knowing every secret at a glance.
I can be smooth and cold as marble,
Indifferent and never yielding.
Or rough as the bark of a sun bathed oak,
Showing all that I have openly.
I can be harsh as a blizzard,
Searing with my very touch.
Or gentle as a spring breeze,
Playfully whistling in your ear.
I can be sorrowful as a summer monsoon,
Raining torrents until no more will come forth,
Or cheering as a spring rain that leaves a rainbow in its wake.
Of devil or angel,
I choose neither.
Both deny themselves the freedom I hold so dear.
The ability to choose between kind or cruel,
Gentle or harsh,
Raging or comforting,
And most of all,
Between hate or love.
I am me,
No one else,
And all the warring elements that make me are the most ugly,
And beautiful things in the world.
All these and so much more are who I am,
Who I can be,
And what I long for myself to grow into.
But,
As all things must someday,
These thoughts drift away,
Lost once again inside me.
Fading as the night does once it reaches dawn,

For I am in that space between dream and waking no longer.

Instead,
I find myself seated in Biology,
With my teacher shooting daggers from her eyes,
Asking pointedly if my nap had been restful enough.
And I say how sorry I am,
Scrambling to answer her,
Working fervently until she turns away.
Then and only then,
I smile.,
For somewhere in between heart and mind,
All those things still exist.
Waiting until I can wonder again,
To find them in that space,
Both singular and vast.
 Ever searching for the thing that one calls a soul.
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