By Blair Hill
I’m about as stable as a tower of Jenga:
pull the right piece and I’ll come crashing down.
Others like to watch as I fall
and pretend I’ll be better in the next round.
That’s the thing about games:
someone always ends up getting played.
Maybe I’ll start making up my own rules,
and try to find a less painful way.
Piece by piece, rule by rule,
I’ll be ahead from the start.
I’ll up the ante and win the hand,
but gamble with someone else’s heart.
Who will win in the end
if I ultimately lose my soul?
Will I be able to justify myself
when I see who pays the toll?
Maybe choice is an illusion.
What am I destined to become?
Will I end up in Hell with guys like you?
Will I allow myself to do what you’ve done?
Edited by Larissa Banitt