“The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, but wiser men so full of doubts.” – Bertrand Russell
Tickle in my brain, flying around in there
Nettle from the wings, wings without air.
Brother to it’s flight, a needle of doubt
The sting will be sure, no way out.
I flinch from the pain, it pierces my defense
Pushing without mercy, sparing no expense
I feel the poison rush, numbing as it goes
Fiercely it corrupts, putting hope in death throes
I shake myself aware, knowing I won’t let go
To pull this ugly thing out, to stop the ebbing flow
Strength from the deep, I brace once more for pain