Not a cliché,
Never completely understood.
Pieces of the part.
Parts of the whole.
All meshed with something greater.
The whole is the man.
Strength, passion, lust, drive.
The core a roiling place of fire and fury.
The dark side of the man.
Past, present, pain, pleasure.
Experience adds flesh.
Wants, needs, hunger, dreams.
Desire tempers the sum.
Hopes, failures, the need to see.
Requirements shape the soul.
The whole is . . . complicated.
So many wish just a part.
A buffet, to pick and choose only what they desire.
To feed in any quantity on what they like,
And discard the rest.
Yet the whole is interwoven.
A tapestry of intricate design.
A pyramid of interlocked blocks.
Pull a thread and destroy the work.
Remove a block and others tumble down.
Pieces of the part affect the whole.
Pieces of the part are the whole.
The dark side of the man rises and ebbs.
The man succeeds and fails.
The cycle often a mystery,
Even to myself.
I am, after all, just a man…
Passion is my strength.
Strength is my weakness.
Weakness is my drive.
Drive is my passion.
A vortex fueled by experience.
The whole is the man in all its glory,
All its turmoil,
All its faults,
All its complications.
Or take none.
To take a piece is to undo the whole.
To undo me.
And what makes me, me…
Will not be undone.