By Synthia Tashfi
I don't trust myself,
To live the "right way".
I make up rules in my head,
So that I don't ever stray.
Every rule has a purpose,
They are all set in patterns.
A jigsaw in my brain,
they make the neurons all fuzzy and battered.
What's weird is that in moments of chaos,
I dump the rules, too scattered to care.
What's weirder is that things turn out fine,
I can push through, I feel I matter and it's rare.
The rules keep coming back,
There is the need to keep things in order,
and on track.
The rules are a way to suppress what is raw,
The unfiltered, the doubtless,
but also the imperfections, the mistakes and the flaws.
And that’s how the order is set,
What’s raw is kept in, resulting in emotional debt.
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