It's days like today— the ordinary days— That he rears his ugly head, That his insidious whispers Penetrate my ego with their Soft and passive tone. It's times like these when nothing Is particularly out of place, And no pain is too sharp, That he reminds us: There is always an off button. It's moments like these When I am alone, And I'm not alone, Does he laugh that snarky bellow. How shrill and how deep Could the sinister sleep Place its pitch In the mind Of wandering sheep? There will never be an answer.