Poetry Collection Vol.1: Ex Nihilo

Wayward Voice

Still and bitter in my pride of riots unheard.

The wicked scurge inside the inner, lurks.

The person jeering in my thoughts which stir.

The nearer i am the verge, the louder it seems to curse.

It causes lesser thoughts to assume precedence;

The voice heralds forth both depression and pain into its resonance.

The mirror opposite of a conscience for it elicits only nonsense.

It's presence weighs over eye's witness at near constance.

Always marked by Its utter lies and incontinence,

It betrays my nature's otherwise solemness.

Seldom am I left unaccosted by its wicked admonishment.

Possibly the proverbial demon which upon the shoulder sits.

However, I found while captive in grim audience,

Clearer insights granted it's baser contents

To evaluate and overcome, the beacon of wise men,

Took its doubt to moderate my extremes and odd ends.

Molded into good use, this, my wayward godsend.