Those Irksome little buggers sitting in my head are trying to take control.
They sit in their ivory tower looking down on me.
They think they have control, they think they have the power
The evil little bugger writes bad poetry, rhymes about killing and causing pain
The good one writes words of adoration and appreciation
They both mask their writing with descriptive words to hide who they are really talking about
It seems to work given those the words have offended.
Because I see through their empty threats I know it’s not my job to apologise to the offended.
No more than it’s my job to read their constant abuse.
To be honest I don’t even think good vs evil need to apologise and I wont ask them too.
If any apology is deserved they should be apologising to me, the writer, the Midnight Cowboy for not keeping me away all those times when the truck went off the road, failed to negotiate a bend, or used a tree to stop.
The humorous side of all this is that one is trying to convince the other than as a power of two they can take control, and I am letting them do it.
I’m sitting back watching every move they make, every word they write, yet they suspect so little.
They suspect I’m crazy, they suspect that if others believe there is voices in my head, they will think I’m crazy, but they are fighting a losing battle.
I’m not crazy, it’s them that are crazy.
They sit at their desk, lit up by the lights on the front of this truck.
They know not what is coming.
Dare they call me crazy again.
The Midnight Cowboy is watching.