Force of Nature

I am a force of nature constricted and confined into unnatural situations,
coiled like Jack into a box I was not consulted on,
have not bought or ordered in my proper size.
Like a wounded bull provoked once too many times
the rage has finally taken over
and I’m running headlong into the streets
marking my track with smeared crimson as I slam against the walls.
Show me kindness and I will follow you
 but I never earned the certificate
for keeping calm when the volcano starts smoking, 
and no matter how many flowers you placate it with
when you reach that point of no return,
she’s gonna blow.
And after that river of lava cools
there will be a kaleidoscope trail of broken bits
people, relationships, job, hearts, credit…
all tumbling down the side in pebbles.
I mourn their brokenness and hold them up to the light and carry them
clattering in my pockets, “just for a while”, to look at 
trying to persuade myself it’s only a pretty rock.
Trying to persuade myself that the next time I am in the arena
I won’t let those arrows pierce me.
That I can turn them aside with logic 
or politeness.
I just need to learn how….
And God help us,
nature is not a willing teacher.
For she revels in those pressures building and she knows it’s imprinted on my cells
to come out of that corner swinging
and scorching everything in my path.
She knows that new growth only comes after a burning.
And that the most magnificent scenes are never of the calm before,
but of the storm.



About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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