A poem by Bird Ale

Strange, but true—
There are voices in everyone’s head,
Sometimes felt in the heart.
Those lingering thoughts
That make your heart reel,
Those nagging lines
That make your head spin,
Reassuring words that give you peace.
Voices…

We are all
But walking crowds.
We carry our own spectators,
Carry our own fans,
We carry our own referees.
When, at times, it seems we look,
We do not; we are conversing with ourselves.
Ha! Ha! Everyone, to himself, is mad.
Voices…

We do not make our own decisions—
Or do we?
The people inside of us decide.
Yes, they do.
But then we take pride
As we admonish, “Be a man of yourself.”
Ha! Ha! To your own self
Be true, for you are not alone.
Voices…

What crowd do you entertain?
How many do you allow?
The words of mortal man
Cling and form themselves in you.
The words of the supernatural,
More real and always equipped,
Seeking your ears, seeking consent.
Voices…

Who, then, is sane?
Who, then, is not looking at others as insane?
The whole world is mad,
The human race, head gone,
Fooling ourselves that some are higher.
Ha! Ha!…
Voices…

To him who is able
To hear The One…
The One whose voice is still and tender,
The One who thrives in silence,
The One who talks and calms,
The One who makes sane…
That one who hears The One
Alone is sane.
Believe it or not,
The whole world is mad,
But there are a few who are not.
Voices…