My Demon
I've been counting syllables
I count in groups of eight;
Though most find my plight laughable,
My gearshift mind I hate.
"Don't step on cracks," it says to me
With such fervor, it knows
I can't back down or look away;
A puppet giving shows.
Although I pray, I beg and plead,
The guilt just won't subside;
Six million deaths, all on my hands
This demon does confide.
Everyone can see the grip
This monster has on me
Through tapping, counting, organizing
And longing to be free.
Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.
Unknown Source
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
|---|---|---|
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
| Deception | 0 | 11/03/2012 |
| Step Out of the Grey | 0 | 10/20/2012 |
| Anxiety | 1 | 10/20/2012 |
| How do you see it? | 1 | 10/20/2012 |
| Unattainable | 0 | 10/20/2012 |
| Experience | 0 | 10/20/2012 |
| A rainy day | 0 | 10/20/2012 |
| The Door | 0 | 10/20/2012 |
| My Demon | 0 | 10/17/2012 |
| Hear Me Roar | 1 | 10/17/2012 |
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