M.Y.O.B.

Poor sickly-sentimental incidental human--
He really doesn't know who I am at all.
He thinks I'm predictable, pacific, restrained,
On an even keel nine days out of ten,
When in reality, I seethe with anger,
Would destroy the universe in a trice
With a snap of the fingers, if I could.
(Better pray I am never granted that power!)
Yet, concurrently, I wish to preserve
Every mote, and beat back entropy
To the point where knowledge and life and love
Can expand forever into infinite bliss.
At the pivot of these two intractable forces--
And at their mercy, I might add--
I stand alone in an oilskin slicker
And teeter between these gusty extremes.
The buffets and blows at times induce
Eccentric behavior on my part,
Arrhythmic hiccups in my flatline sanguinity;
Third-party intercessions just make matters worse.