The Soul: a poem

The Soul

The city of my psychology

Is an ambling, rambling place

Where there are many potholes

That—too often—I fall into.

I could give you a tour,

Show you the large library of all the lies I have told myself

Or the mystic pool that holds the shape

Of all my daydreams.

There is also a museum in me:

Half of it stores the beautifully kind words

And happy moments that I wander through

When the darkest night encompasses me.

The other half,

A place where sad thoughts and hurtful instances

Fly at me in the black like bats I cannot see…

Sometimes this inkiness leaks into the brightly-lit hallways of hope

Yet, weakly, I will push the dimness back into its cage.

But, I will confess to you,

There are days where I will sit in that awful room

Letting the nocturnal demons do their worst to me

Because I believe I deserve it.

Lastly, let me bring you to the center of the town.

Here, my friends, is my heart—

It looks lovely, doesn’t it?

The red velvet plush is ever so comforting.

Look again, though.

Walk around to the back of it

And marvel at the grisly, steel enclosure

Fortified by a thousand iron nails,

Guarded by a lock that was only recently discovered.

I’m not quite sure what’s underneath it—

All I know is that it bleeds.