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The Self Critic

It nags

Like a reason,

Talks me into listening

Only by speaking loudest

A tantrum child who stamps its feet,

And I am its meek father,

Silent not for love nor mercy

But mere lost authority

It gnaws

Like something foreign in my gut

Though sometimes I forget I have been sick

And think it is just tummy-rumbling

It seems always to weigh,

Though when I try to pick it up

I try to lift myself

And seeing my suspended animation


Or it piddles into little bits as I gather it,

And seeps between my hands like mercury,

And I’m left almost admiring the allure

Of poison once again

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