I've often wondered
what name to give
to the thing inside me
that beckons
to be let out
a concieted inner voice
I've never been without
it never once began
it's simply always
clung
to the little light
I've hid inside
like a moth
drawn to the pain
I digress,
on occasion
talking, it does less
raises its voice
starts to shout
like a disappointed parent
whom I've never made proud
tutting in dismay
at the mess I've made
failure to listen
only makes it more loud
I've asked...