My life swings widely, but it’s of my doing.

The scales will never balance of my will.

The pendulum, it’s balanced to keep moving,

swinging, ever-swinging till the end.

It may be time to quit myself,

not off myself, but offer myself

to someone else’s arms.

But I don’t know if I can balance my act forever,

for every time I see a flaw (and believe, I see mine all) I correct it. It’s my endeavor.

Too unorganized, I list my chores, insisting more routine will balance and balance is the goal isn’t it? Mike says so.

“But that’s too formulaic dissents an not-yet-formed mosaic somewhere in my head. So I’ll wait and write ‘til words are right because every sound is vital and this digs new ground, and the ground I dig works toward the source of us-together, and us-together is the goal, isn’t it? Saul says so.

And me?

I spend my much time thinking and talking of life, reading and quoting thoughts and adding my own in their language, as if sheer talking has ever brought meaning.

But my life was so much better when I didn’t care who said what about what,

when I did what I wanted because it brought me a smile and beautiful bystander bliss.

I wasn’t trying to be somebody. I already was.

It’s better to be yourself than create someone else to live inside of.

I think everybody knows this.

So now my life’s swung widely, and t’was my doing,

and the scales have never balanced of my will,

the pendulum, it’s balanced to keep moving,

swinging, ever-swinging till the end.

But I’ve let go.