Poem: Busted Seams

I’m brimming and bursting,
my seams are busted.
My righteous sense of reality
is rusted.
“Fact or fiction,”
a fallacy.
There is no ordered truth,

I struggle and strain
to straighten out
the delusions and disappointments
that make me doubt
my mind and motive.
I meditate
on sense and sensorium
to satiate
heuristic hunger.

And I wonder
what witchly powers womanhood brings
to make me doubt the manly things
and float above on feminine wings.