Full Moon

What is it that takes our minds to the dark spaces,
That brings out the devil in the details,
When you swallow the urge to fight,
And know that you cannot flee from it.

What triggers these boughts of melancholy,
Interspersed with violent rage,
And speckled with paranoia,
And eased by passing moments of joy.

Why is it that what makes us happiest,
Is overrun by that which tortures us,
Like an army, swarming over the wire with bayonets,
Shining and thirsting for the internal crimson of a man.

I long for peace,
And yet constantly stand poised for war,
Welcoming the release of all my humanity,
To the madness, that my very being seems to create.

I feel as though I am always the agent of the chaos that engulfs me,
And all those I love, and it makes me afraid,
Of the future, and whether I can sustain this stability,
Or whether I should seek life away from the trappings of man.

It comes upon me without warning,
And I fear the day it boils over,
And I will grow so weary,
That I let the chaos simply engulf me,
And cross the point of no return.

But right now I will hold back the tide that threatens,
And be the rock upon which the waves break themselves,
I will not give in, I will not give up,
For this life is mine, and I intend to keep it.

Quincy R Tatum
March 8, 2012