The Real

By Sam Marston

I look back down the path,
I’ve killed him more than I can keep track
But no matter my rage or wrath,
The bastard always comes back.

The snickering sneer,
The look in his eyes,
He has no fear,
He never dies.

He is the mask that I wear,
He blinds me, so I cannot see.
This is my life, I don’t want to share,
But perhaps its him who’s wearing me.

Am I just the inner voice.
Is the real one he?
Do I even have a choice?
Does he write of me?

I hate you, me, alot.

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