A Fold in the rug

I trip over myself

Like I’m a fold in the rug

Of who I am. I look down,

About to swear, blame someone,

And see that it’s myself

That has tripped me up.

Then I swear at myself,

Fight a little with myself,

How could you leave it like that

You idiot, I didn’t do it

On purpose, It doesn’t matter,

You still did it didn’t you

Until I realize I don’t like

Fighting with myself.

If I’m mad at myself

I can’t concentrate on building

My flying machine. 

I can’t talk to the girl I love

In the right way.

So I forgive myself for 

The fold in the rug.

It will happen again, I know.

Don’t worry, I tell myself,

Sometimes the rug of us

Is just like that. Wrinkled,

Folded, scrunched up. 

Better than being flat, forever.