There is a little voice
That rattles ’round my head.
I try hard to ignore it
But it gets louder instead.
The voice is not my conscience
Or devil’s advocate.
It’s evil and mischievous
And filled with rage and hate.
It tells me that I’m stupid
And ugly, worthless, slow.
It mocks me when I am happy
And is gleeful when I’m low.
It hates my optimism
And tries to bring me down.
It won’t be satisfied until
My smiles are always frowns.
I hate that wicked voice
But it’s so easy to see
That what I’m really hating
Is just a part of me.
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