Am I a worm or a jar? — a poem

I have spent much of my life in chaos.
An antithesis to a calm, quiet sort of mind.

Rallying constantly.
A worm against a glass jar,
Flailing stupidly.

Some days, sometimes,
I remember I am the jar
Not the worm,

So, the scene reverses.

And I’m silence and sweet nothingness
A cold, barriered round object.
No edges to hurt or be hurt against,
A death slide of glass.

To the blackened, reddening insects
Who throw themselves at my side,

I am a death sentence.

Puncturing their skin against

Coldness.
Raking me with nails I cannot feel,
And screaming in voices
I do not hear.

Reaction is weakness, a chip in glassy armour.
A harmonic clamour,
Only a reverberated screeching
Of arachnids’ invasive antenna.

A worm, or a jar.

Oxymoronic, confusing creature,
Chaotic isolation makes for
Chronic misinterpretation.