Inside My Choices

the devil creeps inside my head to make my choices, I start to listen to alternating voices. Bipolar with psychosis was my diagnosis, and these voices that I’m hearing are sounding so ferocious. Should I cater to their fiendish will? Let the evil partake and get behind the wheel, drive it over a cliff and finally disappear, and when they all come looking, I’ll say, “I’m over here.” Starving the situation, the lessons I feel, seems that I have forgotten to take my mental pills. For this strange affliction, I smoke my prescription, the perfect description, my life ain’t so quaint I can never be what I ain’t , a slithering critter that whispers That never had a complaint. I contour the flow with the words that disturb, and the verbs that perturb the sinners and saints. They tell me to listen, they tell me to fall, they tell me my destruction is the key to it all. They whisper of madness, they echo my name, they sharpen my instincts, they heighten the pain. They thrive in my silence, they scheme in my sleep, they wait for the moment my soul is too weak. They tell me I’m nothing, they tell me I’m great, they tell me I’m destined to burn in my fate. A war in my head, an unholy parade, marching in patterns of chaos they’ve made. I scribble my anguish in blood and in ink, but every solution just pushes me to the brink. I try to suppress them, I drown them in sound, but they only get louder when no one’s around. They creep in the cracks and they rot in the seams, they puppet my actions, they fracture my dreams. Should I give in to finally let it all go? Should I silence the noise with the end of my show? Should I follow the whispers, embrace what they say, or keep up the fight for another dark day? Every decision leads to a split in the road, one leads to ruin, the other to hope. But which one is which when both feel the same? When pleasure and suffering merge in my brain? I call out for answers, but no one can hear, my voice is just static that fades into fear. Maybe I’m broken, maybe I’m cursed, maybe this life is a script I rehearsed. Or maybe these voices aren’t demons or ghosts, maybe they’re fragments of me I’ve let go. Maybe they’re memories that are trapped in my skin, scratching and clawing, demanding to win. So I keep on writing to keep up the fight, but the darkness still lingers on the edges of light. One day I’ll escape them, or maybe I won’t, but at least in this moment, I’m still not a ghost