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 once it's name
and from where it came
my inquiries inane
for I know the answer
is always the same
it just drowns me
out
takes my hand
drags me to hell
shows me around
fetches me my fear
should I forget it
keeps my illness in its pocket
should I ever doubt
it visits most often
when I'm down and out
feeds me lines
with orders
to write them down
and yes, I obey
despite my frown
I must, or so be it
my being it will pry open
to allow its scriptures
to spill out
it's words
have pointed teeth
like woeful weeds
waiting to sprout
in the mind
of the sorrowful soul
looking for relief
in the words of hope
written wrong
on tainted scrolls
apologies,
dear reader
this was the only way
out.

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