Split Personality

Individuals dwell here in my mind,
personalities quite incompatible,
or incomparable, rather refined
beyond intervention, irreparable.

There are a lot of us in here quibbling:
If you’re left-handed, how can you be right?
asks the humdrum one of odd-ball sibling;
who retorts, you can be wrong and still write.

Nowadays, no whole people reside here,             
just a lot of softly scrambled eggheads.  
Cannot unscramble eggs, they say, though near,                              
standing by, are all the king’s lovely men.

I am the one named normal—powerless
to break the rules—each time staying inside
the boundaries.  Don’t make an ugly mess
of things, I say, always by laws abide.

There lives a frail and frightened child in here;
the plucky parent; a disinclined teen.
I am the one named rebel, not a mere
fool.  Can’t you see, silly?  It’s me who’s free!

My mind is no home to the big picture,  
just small fragments of a jigsaw puzzle,
framed in straight edge, crooked at the juncture.
How did I get cut up like a puzzle?

I am the one who’s dying.  Is anyone
really ready for this?  Who will put                  
the riddle together after I’m gone?
Another day—the door will never shut.

Now we see the mountain tops way up high;    
been looking down at our multiple feet.                        
For improbable lives, please do not sigh.
Look up; behold the stars that we will greet.