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.
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