The Distorted Soul

There is the real me. There is the pretend me. The real me thinks and talks and acts on Logic, severity, and pride. The pretend me toys with Freedom, love, and sadness. Both need the other, Though reluctant to admit it. As the lion needs the lamb, As the water needs the plant. The lion and the lamb will lie together When love is watered daily. The real me and the pretend me will embrace each other When love is watered continuously. In nature there are no halves. Or separate entities. The real me wears the clothes of the pretend me anyway, And vice-versa, as they use each other's words indistinguishably. There may be discourse, But there is never disconnect. Disagreements are the flare-up schisms Of the Mother Soul, the world's soul. Yet to define ourselves we must separate therefore Differentiate. To split ourselves in half, as I have, We give ourselves a sister-nature, We allow ourselves the freedom to identify In our multipleness. Our single-heartedness. In becoming two, we are closer to the shattering Of the illusion called, "enemy." We are just too spread out, As evolution becomes a laughably slow growth Of acceptance. Truth is like Drawing A picture on a large piece of Paper Claiming the picture to be your Artwork, Though the paper is of limitless Length As old as the Earth With an infinite amount of Drawings All so intertwined, even to your own, That you, from your own distorted perception, Your own ragged soul, could not possibly fully appreciate it. "It" being the Music. The Grand Song. The Life as poetry. The every breathe a beckoning to your knees. The every me drowned in reverence. .