By DR. AGONSON
That voice is back again,
he’ll never stay away.
I hear his damning tones
as night overwhelms day.
Parasite, he calls me,
sucking dry your friends lives.
Useless, villain, wicked,
the words cut me like knives.
Kill yourself, he repeats,
before you die alone.
Life is not worth having,
there’s no good in what’s sown.
Pain collapses my chest.
My shoes become cement.
I stand awash in rain,
stuck in bitter torment.
Move on, move on, I plead,
holding my house’s key.
The black storm wails tonight,
while I’m a rooted tree.
God, give me a purpose.
What joylessness is life.
All this seems meaningless.
Being, with pain, is rife.
Help me God, save my soul.
I want to want the good,
but wicked is my heart,
broken, decayed wormwood.
Listen to my beautiful voice:
Tale Told 
Nice sound. I once read that meaninglessness is meaning that has not yet been found.
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Such a beautifully eloquent poem. Especially like; “God, give me a purpose. What joylessness is life. All this seems meaningless. Being, with pain, is rife.”
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That the voice’s (your conscience? schizophrenia?) damning cuts you like knives, this would suggest you are not wicked.
Of course your words may not be about you.
Whatever the case – a good read (and also like your voice!).
Anna :o]
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I think we have both the good and bad inside… love the image of the wormwood… as it’s a weed that eat us.
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I can relate to this. I’m learning to replace it with a different, truer voice.
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