Match Stick Person

Match Stick

Maybe I'm just a match stick man,
Living in a match box world.
Call me forth, bring me out again,
I'll show you my flaming fire for your mirth.

As straight as a board, or twig from a tree,
A match box nestled in pocketed safety.
Nobody, knows, thinks, or even expects,
Where in the world will my fire strike next?

Stress on the kindling, friction stoking flames.
Did you ever stop to listen to the friction in my brain:
Horns, and cars, and conversational voices,
Block me from hearing some important choices.

Sometimes by accident, sometimes defense,
Bipolar sparks my flame boldly without cause or sense:
Fireworks and sparklers and rockets' red glare
Often set off by an emotional spark's ware.

Sometimes a wooden match stick man,
Sometimes smoking like a conflagration.
But I, myself, must be more than a match stick man
And cease with my own destructive determination.