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That Other Voice I Hear Inside Of Your Head
That other voice I hear inside of my head—
It speaks when the day is silent and dead.
A whisper not mine, though shaped by my tongue,
The child repressed, the mother undone.
He murmurs dreams I dare not claim,
In shadows stitched with guilt and shame.
He mocks my calm with primal need,
And plants in thought a savage seed.
Not madness—no—it has a name:
The id, in chains, still plays the game.
It craves the touch, the fire, the thrill,
The lawless joy, the wish to kill.
But I, the ego, stand between
Desire's flame and conscience clean.
Still, late at night, when reason sleeps,
The voice returns, from caverns deep.
It knows me more than I know myself.
Copyright ©
James Mclain
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