What is that sound?
Is it inside of me?
I want it out,
It's got to go,
Is it in me
or
is it the speaker between my inner ear that sets me off balance?
No,
It has to be me
or
it must be something inside of me
Maybe it crawled in through my ear and lucidity nestled around it to preserve a habitat for syncope
Syllables and sensibility altered by the cyclic disorder that staggers around
Aiming to methodically renounce the inane
Am I conscious?
Is it my sub-conscience?  
It's got to be me
and I've got to go
But what is that contentious voice?
The cavil of every thought in complete opposition?
The resented petulance?
It cannot stay for long
It's not mine, it can't be
Contradictions collapse from feeble tongues
Furrowed and fictitious,
the ominous presence lingers in the shadow of my mind.
My thoughts don't sound like that,
do they?
Do they?