Inside My Choices 1.0

the devil creeps inside my head to make up all the choices, As I start hearing alternating voices. Bipolar with psychosis was my diagnosis, and these voices that I’m hearing are sounding so ferocious. Should I cater to the dark will? Let the evil partake and get behind the wheel, drive the car over a cliff and finally disappear, and when they all come looking, I’ll say, “I’m over here.” Starving the situation, the lessons that I feel, seems that I have forgotten to take my mental health 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, I ain’t ever had a complaint. I contour the flow with the words that disturb, and the verbs that perturb the sinners to 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, every solution conclusive I’m pushed to the brink. I try to suppress them, drown them with sound, 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 and finally let it all go? Should I cure all the pain when I end my own show Should I follow the whispers, embrace what they told, or keep up the fight for another dark day? Every choice made a perpetual fork in the road, one leading to ruin, the other to hope. But which one is which when both feel the same? When pleasure and suffering conflict 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 trapped in my skin, scratching and clawing, demanding to win. 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