Her Conscience

She tells her to keep fighting,
She tells her she isn’t enough.
She tells her to keep going,
She tells her she is tough.

She tells her she’s not perfect.
She calls herself a joke.
She calls herself an imposter,
A toy that is broke.

She remains there, unnoticed,
Behind the dust and cob,
Of unending solitude,
Amongst an endless mob.

She whispers softly, sweetly;
The truths no one will tell,
Of hidden faults and failures,
A hidden life of hell.

Times, there are, when all is fine,
Chills numb her to the bone,
And the voices disappear,
Facades, she does condone.

Lasting content ne’er lingers,
She surfaces, somewhere.
With screaming words–mandatos,
With whom she need compare.

The torment never ceases,
When will it be enough?
Just a broken toy,
Or a di’mond in the rough?
7-11-11