It always starts with the push
from somewhere deep within.
From the smallest, tiniest part of me
the part that is trying to fight.
The push is surrounded by light
by good and the power it brings.
The push is the instigation
of taking forward steps.
The push is fragile and timid
weak and on unsteady legs.
The push is always in danger
of the inevitable pull.
The pull is dark and shadowed
it whispers and speaks in tongues.
It wears a mask of many faces
unrecognizable in many forms.
The pull is just what it sounds like
being grabbed from behind and tugged.
Backwards while you scramble
to remain upright, on two feet.
The pull sneaks in at the most opportune times
when fear and sadness reign.
Just when you need the push the most
the pull can steal you away.
Down darkened alleys and side streets
where no one can see where you’ve gone.
Into shadows, behind closed windows and doors
into places that no one belongs.
The pull is stronger than the push sometimes
and at moments like this I’m alone.
Feeling failed and fractured and hiding away
until I can push my way out again.