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Voices
A million times I've pulled the trigger.
A million times the voices quiver,
but every time they come again.
They can't be killed, there is no end.
Is all then lost, no hope at all?
Of course there is, by means so small.
For somewhere in this empty soul
the threads of who I am control.
Shear will exerted, through the fray
the voices flee as I do and say
that which is right, denying me.
My only hope for sanity.
My only hope eternally.
Will I be them... or will I be me?
Copyright ©
Jeff Bresee
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