Nutshell
My soul,
she looks into her mirror,
speaking words of contradiction
to herself about what she sees
She knows not what she speaks
Won't someone interpret those escaping words?
She can't understand why she'll feel what she does--
which is everything,
which is nothing
She fights it all, she fights herself,
she can't let go (but should she?)
She'll pin this thing to the ground with thought,
this "thing" of a thousand things
but her grip grows weak
because her right hand does not know her left--
Together they are called Contradict and Confuse;
apart, Sense and Self
My soul,
her steps fly in every direction,
going everywhere at once and yet getting nowhere,
seemingly gaining no ground
Years compound the complications
of so much beauty and so much pain
that she's lost which way's up
And she's tired of hurting, tired of waiting,
tired of hoping, feeling, fearing,
tired of fearing
Her back is heavy-laden with the burden of self-doubt
and distrust in her own mind;
Her guilt and foolishness bend her to the ground,
as all the while she still believes it need not be so,
that she does it to herself
Does she do it to herself?
My soul,
she won't despair, but still she sighs
and wonders how much time it takes to move
and wonders if there are words somewhere that might make sense,
that might speak clarity into being
You'll find little reason or rhyme here, because--
my soul,
her face is drawn with the absence of it
