She is some kind of mania,
She suffers from logorrhoea.
Listeners here, there be,
Or no listeners,
She does incessantly talk
Nearly round the cloak.
But mind you, she does no soliloquy -
Thinking out loud or
Pretending, as actors do,
That enthralled poor crowds -
(Seated past the proscenium,
Devouring whatever comes from the podium.)
She simply talks to destruct,
Without weighing, on me, its colossal impact.
The stranger does strange things:
It makes you feel she talks,
When in fact it is I, the possessed,
Who does all the talks,
Strangely enough without involving the things in the pharynxes.
But there are also moments when she goes absolutely dead quiet,
(I can hear the deafening silence all the same.)
When someone, other than me, invites her to talk.
I know what you think!
Some kind of necromancer who has gone lunatic?
But no, she has not gone off the rails.
No, hold your breath, not before she drove me to the walls.
Nor has she given up the good old ethics -
She is still in command of high moral grounds.
In fact she is perfectly normal.
And does business with natural balance.
The trouble: she is invisible,
And cannot be brought to book,
For the blunders because of her I regularly commit.
Knowing what she does to innocent people,
She is here, she is real.
Not only has she camped for long,
But she has now become part of my integral head,
And if removed to save me from this hideous reverie,
The Chemistry of my essence will definitely go wrong.
Then you will have the better of me, a real mad character,
Let loose, imposing real threat,
And society will have to stain its hands with blood
To restrain or get me off the streets.
This stranger lives inside my head,
But she is not aware of my being,
Nor has she got a clue.
What it is that causes my blues?
© Haileselassie Girmay