Note to self

he's that someone you ignore
the one that was created
from the muck on the bottom of your feet
from the dust of the road you've already traveled

he's anxious for attention
because you've shut him away
deep in the closet at the end of the hall
yet you still can hear the quiet rapping
the ever present tapping
on the back of your heart

you tell yourself that he can't help himself
that he was sourced from fear
he was raised from the depths of hate
that anger is his blood
and malice is his breath
and you shutter at his delights

you keep telling yourself he can't help himself
and you're right
only you can do that