There’s a dead man walking in my mind.
He reminds me of all my faults all the time.
He tells me I’m not good enough to do all I wish,
Like my dreams are more than I could ever accomplish.
The dead man shows me all I wish to ignore:
The things that set me apart, the things I can’t afford
To dwell on, but that’s what he wants me to see—
The house of my mind I’ve let ruin me.
The shattered glass that shimmers against the floor,
The tear-covered pillows aren’t something I can easily ignore.
The rips in the carpet, upturned in pain,
The nicks on the mantle, the worn couch stains.
I’ve let myself wallow in the pain of the past,
I’ve let this dead man convince me nothing good will last.
How to escape this hurt I’ve allowed?
Taking the key to my ruined house and lock him out?
I try to resist, try to push him away,
But the more I push, he attacks me more every day.
So, I’ll surrender to my thoughts, let the dead man be,
But then I wonder, what if the dead man is me?
Ded. The dead man walking.
