The Confrontational Dance

The horns arise when I go to sleep and sometimes it pokes a visit throughout the day to take a peek. What can a girl do in a world that loves the horns of arcane control? Barricading or contending every resourceful and stimulating goal. Why then— my anguished spirit pities this forceful dominance, grabbing my heart at the stroke of midnight. I'm so bewildered as to why this clutch is such an astonishingly and discouraging plight. Sprawling my essence out like a cross, bare in the sheets, the agony feels like I'm dying upon a mattress that's nothing but a buttress— a stone sheeted pleat, not doing anything. Instead it's multiplying the weaknesses from the entire week.

It sits heavily on my chest, exhaling a breath out of its nostrils; huffing directly against my face which has fallen under its feet. Let's get up again and this time I'll defeat. She takes the time to ponder, she is I, and we are single minded sitting in separate corners in this confusingly confined room, facing each other, begging to see this complexity complete. I no longer want to replay this tune. I am doomed. Well, maybe we shall resume— my gosh, even to assume, phew! When she changes her mind she wanders in wonder— this botheration is never done. Back to the sleep that forces her to repeat again by morning's sun.

Oh hopeless me, is it possible the universe doesn't want me to achieve? World please. I am King and they will watch me unite my broken parts, the minor separation of my mind and soul, when enclosed, will mend their sleepless hearts. This time the world and I will meet in a formal greeting, the latter at once, not in the former when I was crushed by its rejections and rush— they will know my name. As soon as she catches up to me and crosses my path from across the floor we will erupt and shake the world some more. Yet when you begin to walk over it bellows with a rage, should I consider that a— hi fellow? When I've confronted a blockade so paper thin as a page? Yet it hits me so hard slapping the front of my face when I try to enter the spotlighted stage, I don't even feel the need to engage. I see right through the entry, this is so strange.

That bull's hooves also staple down the toes of my shoes, male cow I cannot moo---ve! Your eyes are red and I am in dread, I really can't fall asleep in my bed. You're stuck, but constantly moving, like a train on its track moving in one line feeling fine, with the thoughts in the back of my head questioning— is this divine? Angered bull I am grooving to the beat that you uniquely designed with a pricey receipt, for becoming quite generic, I was looking for something with a little bit more merit. Maybe I can possibly fix yesterday, but yesterday can't come back. It's way, way too steep, it's already kept in times past's keep. Goddamnit I'm so upset I could shout with a verbal word that's so inappropriate, I cannot say it— *Beep*.

Where do we go? Where in this world do we fit in? When the horns keep pressing behind, unkind to the bumps of the spine— I don't feel comfortable in your proverbial settings when the worldly view keeps telling me I'm aiding and abetting, but I know what's mine. It's beginning to set in. My start is around the corner and I'm destined to get in, I am not suggesting, I don't care if it's unsettling. My encouragement is diminishing the wobble of the unbalanced scale that is never in my favour, but soon there will be no more heavy labour. I'm here to win and tomorrow is today from yesterday's thoughts and I am not going back to the grave. Do not hand me a shovel and tell me to behave.

I will not fall asleep counting sheep for any bully to push me downward, pressing against my chest— I am not a coward. There will not be anymore snatching away of my spirit from outside of my body within this hour, when you know she is a part of me, you know she uplifts the prophetic to be, that's why there is a delay in my rationality. Must this test be such a pest in this reality? I am solemnly distressed, but no less I want my break now and for that I need my rest. I won't stay broken because you press on top of me, my God I've learned to resist the choking, Dionysus don't you see. Sizzling Eye of Round, round eye shadow within, that's why you step on my already broken skin.

Bruised and battered, and I am not shattered, I can now stand up for the awakening of all causes, the ones you made matter— considering I have been tarnished and tattered. That subject with a head for a “T” is not the one that bothers me. It's time. The time taken in patience for a crime that was falsely assigned, because the bull wanted to take a chance to agitate with the confrontational dance— body and mind chased to create division by its trance. There she is and I am finally made into one, no more compartments, now I am free to continue to be me. Indeed. I love to feel the joys of beating the battles that are now done— here's the time for fun after all you've said and submitted me to become; that made my spirit, the heart in my chest drum. When you take your stand and play the Matador in your life— you will eventually control the pull, grab life by the horns and settle the score and display its balderdash; leading the unquenched to become full. That just so happens to be the success after enduring the trial against the raging bull.