The iron man

I have an Iron man inside
so small about three inches tall
and primitive and hard.
It lives inside
where all my writhe and kicking flails
donot shift him, but birth my fails
so heavy in my heart.
My head, my loins
and him do tear apart
my being.
I am stubborn.
He is iron.
He is stone
and compels me be alone.
I was not loved as child
but trained to grow along a path
mapped out and flawed.
That Iron Man stood off the way
and bent that crooked path astray
and wound me in a spiral
by force of Gravity alone.
He is heavy
Iron and Stone
and primitive and hard.

His blood flowed bitter in my veins
and could but I plant him at my goal
his will would pull me to him cold.
His snarl inside my bones my taste
'neath languid muscles of my face.
Would you see him in my eyes?
or could magnetic pull disguise
his longing to be whole
if, I did plant him at my goal.
And yet, he is inside
and pins me to the ground
and round and round and round
I swirm and thrash.
I strain and push against the past.