My Own Dæmon

Hell appointed me my own personal dæmon,
So I know I am never completely a free man,
At least not free from his haunts and taunts;
He loves to keep me in a state of confusion,
And bait my muddled mind with flies of lies;
So now comes his usual eerie query:
Are you somehow an unseemly blunder
Cut completely asunder from heaven?
And the next question in his oppression:
Are you unique or rather painfully plain?
And then he begins his aggression:
You serve no purpose in the corpus of life!
You’re surplus baggage fit more for a circus;
You could be dead and no head would bow;
You’re lame, but the game goes on and on . . .
How long before you know you don’t belong?
Then my dæmon becomes more pointed:
You’re gallant in writing with no talent,
You’re defiant in speaking but not valiant,
You’re determined to make some difference,
But constantly run into a wall of indifference,
You talk but people balk at whatever you say,
And your days are long and people avoid you,
And you’re not employed in anything gainful,
But rather engaged in what is so disdainful;
You delude yourself sometimes into believing
That you’re brave when really you’re a knave!
And so my dæmon speaks and I’m quite weak
As I critique myself by the words I’ve heard,
Although I try to listen to the glistening words
Of my angel, but I cannot hear and tears come;
And I try to kneel but keel over on the floor
Where I bore a hole so I can go underground
Like a mole and so live underneath the earth
In psycho-spiritual dearth for all my worth . . .
Sometimes repression of depression is hard,
Chiefly when hell’s appointed you a dæmon,
Your very own companion from Tartarus!

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