Counterpunch
There is a voice
inside my head
who’d like to execute
me dead.
Accusing me of
being subhuman.
Warns me of trouble
blooming.
Scolds, judges, condemns
me,
Berates me endlessly
for my ineptness,
but I offer
this unholy scoffer,
in righteous
indignation,
a counterpunch of affirmation.
I am God’s child, a
divine creation.
To the inner nag,
no relation.
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