Eye Sore With My Third I

Eye sore with my third I

Enough to make the stoic agonize and struggle in their slumber

Thoughts foaming in the heated cauldron of their minds

Words jumping up in a frenzy

Pricking the tips of their tongues,

Just waiting impatiently to be let out into the open

Like unruly children

I have become that resonating voice

That you've vainly fought to place into

Evanescence of your dead conscience

The shadow that you dare not look at

For it mimes your evil actions

The mirror that contorts your image into its reality.

You have become my paranoia,

My restraint

We have both become each others worst fears.