Like a drug I tear me apart.
Myself isn't usually a problem,
but her two cents can cause great damage.

I loves to write about love to come,
wishing upon dying stars far away.

Myself lives on instinct,
always defensive from being hurt one to many times.

And Me lashes out to hurt,
wanting to cause pain and gain power.

They are all in a constant battle.
I, the true self.

But when the odds are two against one,
there is little hope good will prevail.

Everyone has their own story to tell.
A reason they came, a reason they left.

We are all writing our stories.
Some people will pause to re-read previous chapters.

But where is the sense in that?
We all must keep writing to live the life we want to.