Poetry by Jambo Stewart
Hand me a whiskey, or vodka, or gin,
Awake Ignis Internum: The fire within,
Who doth dwell down deep, deep beneath the skin,
Is it a sin? If I win? Using violent means?
I don’t think it is, Ignis agrees.
Self justification is a dangerous vocation.
He taunts me of course,
This malevolent force,
Cutting people down with no remorse,
Poking at the wounds, waiting to be let out,
He’s dying to come and have another bout,
He rears his ugly head, he catches me off guard,
Just waiting for the next cunt who thinks he’s hard,
Waiting for a time when all hope is lost,
Are we there yet?
Could it be? That it’s just me? Or a pseudo-personality?
Like some unholy trinity?
Or has time just fractured my fragile psyche?
Study some basic psychology, and I think you’ll agree,
This isn’t quite normal, but no-one can see,
No-one can see Ignis the way I do,
When my thoughts turn to words without my social filter,
I know I’m in trouble, slightly off-kilter,
And then my thoughts are no longer mine at all.
The longer I live, the more I am tempted,
To give Ignis the key, to let the demon drive,
To say ‘fuck the lot of ya’, I know I’ll survive,
A smile on my blood soaked face, shows I’m alive,
The owner of the blood, maybe not so much,
But fuck him too.
They can lock me up again, but they’ll never be free,
Of Ignis Internum, because he lives in everyone, not just me.