This voice behind action,
Cold, critical, harsh and self imposed.
Ever speaking, listening not
To truth and caring, wise words
Of those giving of the heart.
This voice bent on the tear down,
Hell bent on making a mockery
Of self, of worth, of accomplishment.
Whispering line of lie, shout of shame.
"You do too little, never enough."
This voice active in criticism,
Putting words in mouths not open
Thoughts in minds unthinking falsehood.
Insecurity a rampant hatchet
Marriage the bed of its hacking rage.
This voice speaking always, loudly,
Yet I have ears to never hear.
Truth words like tornadic wind surround
And set free a heart long jailed.
Eschet chayil, even the imperfection.
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