The demons six

I hate the demons in my head telling me I'm less than I am.

The first one telling me I can't possibly be right - I'm much too self righteous thinking I could ever be better or that I stand out in the crowd and shall be punished for these thoughts 

The second one slyly reminding me of years long past and the taunting and teasing and not good enoughs'.

The third is much louder with pots and pans of "You think you can't; you think you can't; you think you can't!" 

The fourth always seems aloof, rummaging through my head and throwing over boxes and files, flinging paper in the air and giggling with wicked glee.

The fifth is busy in my heart wringing and stringing it all over my rib cage trying to squeeze the last bits of hope, faith and determination out of me. 

The sixth one is the worst one. 

The rhetorical demon, who is at his best with whispers of denial, of disgrace, always a hopeless answer for the questions I make. He sits there with his feet up and an air of importance because he knows he has me hooked. Like a fish on a line, there's nothing but time.

"My dear," he says, "why must you try to ignore what I say? You simply are not good enough. Tsk! Tsk! Look at that face, the heavy eyes, the crowded teeth, the bones that stick out like a scarecrow tree! You simply cannot hope for a light to shine through, you're over! DONE! You must simply make do."


I agree and collapse in the dark; I suppose it's much better here where I am used to the hurt. But I know I'm the enemy I'm trying to run from. And the faces I dread are only in the mirror. But with six little demons in my ears, it's hard to believe you were born with wings on your back.