Precipice

Things fall apart, and people do it too.
I crystallize my thoughts in poetry.
I try to leave them there and start anew,
But such a consummation will not be.
I lack the strength to make myself that free,
Nor can I push the thoughts I write aside:
They look up from the page and laugh at me,
And since I've written them, I cannot hide.
I see my soul in them, spotted and pied,
And quail from what I am, and how I think;
My inner self cannot help but deride
Its own obsessions, and I near the brink.
But every time I do, I realize
That taking that last step would be...unwise.