Scrupulosity

There’s a winged preacher on my shoulder,

But I can’t tell if it’s an angel or obsession.

It seems the harder I try to listen,

The more I start to question.

The harder I try to fight,

The further that I fall.

If I’m not trying to be perfect,

Am I trying at all?

And am I trying too hard,

Or not trying enough?

Is it an intrusive thought,

Or is it calling out a bluff?

I know I’m supposed to be happy,

But I only feel safe in the hurt.

If I’m comforted by a screen,

Is that a blessing or a curse?

And if our brains make us who we are,

Is it my fault or the sick’s?

Why can I only seem to cope,

In a bought of quick fix?

And if I know what I’m doing,

Does that mean that that’s it?

Why do I repeat, and repeat,

When it only makes me more sick?

And if it’s a doubting disease,

Do I really believe?

And if my brain is what’s sick,

Then is it really just me?

I know I’m supposed to lay it all down,

But then what am I supposed to bare?

Am I really repentant,

Or am I just scared?

And is the fear the way out,

Or does it add to the injury?

Obsess, compulse, repeat,

A daily trinity of misery.