Twinning

What's it like being a twin?
I don't know.
What's it like not being a twin?
It sounds so lonely.
Oh, I always wanted a twin sister.
No you didn't.
You only wanted not to feel so alone.
Feeling alone as a twin is like cheating on your mate,
except it's cheating with your soul
instead of someone else.
Am I entitled to the same existential angst
as singletons,
who enter and leave the
mortal plane alone?
Or do I only gradually earn the right to despair
of finding meaning, a reason
for living, a purpose beyond
completing the matched set?
I stuff the yielded from separating
and individuating into my wallet, and keep suicide
in my back pocket.
Such a rich reward from the developmental lode.
I mined it for years,
lining other pockets with lucre
filthy from wrung hands, and snot-filled with tears.
Plumbing the depths of hopelessness and
I learned the way of the un-twinned
and found it wanting.
Searching for an anchor, I re-found
my solid core.
No longer the dead weight
I tried to shunt aside,
twinship emerged from the shadows
into which it had retreated as solace, comfort, light.

Making my way back

As if through a tunnel,
I viewed the world.
Eyes deep within me were

disconnected from the outside.

Profound distance kept me hidden
and unreachable.

I felt the distance growing,
saw the darkness
lengthening and deepening
my isolation.

When did it end?
I don't recall the process
of closing the gap.
Yet I traveled

the distance
between my self and the world.
Removed the magnet
pulling me too deep inside,
prolonging my agonizing
aloneness.

It was not solitude.
It was torture.
The rack. Stretching my inner bounds
almost beyond repair.

Resilient spirit
rebounded, recovered, rejoiced and
reconnected
with others and outer self.

Bubbling with ebullient life
this path is become
joy indeed.

Paradox

This poem stemmed from a writing workshop exercise where I received a set of unlikely combinations of nouns and adjectives as the basis for a poem. I'll bet you can find those pairs!

Cloudy carnivores of souls,
saintly demons rise from mist
like unpolished butterflies.
Strange yet expected
like the familiar mermaid
who pops her head from the sea,
tail coated with concrete sequins
pulling her below the foam.

Saintly demons as odd
as a plaid kangaroo
warp my perception
like a wrinkled tractor trailer
hinders traffic on my road home.

Saintly demons have transparent
employment to misguide me.
My cranky bamboo heart yelps
as I bend and flex to absorb
paradox.