The Devil On My Left Shoulder

I saw a prompt yesterday from imi that can be found here, called ‘The Devil On Our Left Shoulder’ and thought I’d have a look at it.

I’ve just abandoned a piece on something else for the second time in two days, and thought this would be something to sit and try. Not sure if it’s a poem, a rant or just a bit of ‘woe is me’ selfishness.

Regardless, it came a bit more naturally than the other thing I was trying, so feel free to take a look.

I see you, hear you, feel you.

Sitting on my shoulder, sometimes?
Mostly in my head, prodding
deep inside, with that
three-pronged pitchfork.

You used to come to me through drink,
not only the ‘just one mores’
that you shouted louder
than anything else around me

Knowing that was something
you knew I’d want to hear,
a rationale I’d call it,
though more apt would be

poorly-wrapped excuses.

I convinced myself I could hear you,
and found you reasonable when
I lied to my family about how that was going,
lied to myself too.

You in one ear and that sweet liquid
in my mouth convinced me
of the truth in those lies,
for far longer than was healthy.

I thought that stopping that
would get rid of you,
somehow removing liquid and
causing your subsequent drowning.

You don’t leave that easily though.

I hear you popping up unwanted,
whispering sour-nothings
in my ear,
telling me I’m a shit Dad, usually.

Fortunately, I can let that
bounce off me most days,
I have my daughter, who herself
is my shield; proof to the contrary.

You make yourself felt here,
where I write.
Playing on the insecurities
you know plague me.

Makes sense, I find something
I like. Come back to it
after 20 years. It feels good,
I can share, feel catharsis.

Try and learn how to write poems
and have fun doing it.
You don’t like that at all though,
preferring hurt to healing.

I’ll read something,
often something good,
there’s talent here.
The come your whispered barbs

‘you could never write something like that’
‘that’s how you respond to that prompt,
not with clowns and sausages.
Stupid cunt, you’re the clown’

‘these people aren’t really
giving you praise, or encouragement,
it’s pity. You try hard, but it’s just shit, isn’t it?
You see that don’t you.’

‘They’re probably just being nice
so that you shit up about the drinking.
You go on about it enough.
People have their own, bigger problems’.

That’s what I hear most times when I write
(or read for that matter).
I know it’s you that often show me those
that agree.

If they’re not having a pop
for occasionally sharing pieces,
sullying those who really put the work in,
they’re outwardly saying how shit you are.

Clever, I see what you’re doing.
Reinforcement.
It works a lot too.
I believe it for spells.

However, I still enjoy it
in a way that lands inside me,
more potent than your poison,
and so I continue.

I don’t have the benefit of an angel
on the other shoulder
to do whatever white-clad magic
that’s supposed to counter you.

So you can stay on my shoulder,
jabbering hateful rhetoric,
and as long as I’m still writing,
you’re rendered impotent.

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