Backspacing every letter I write,
Dressed in pure black and white.
He grins at me with scorn
He tells me I am torn.
Deep inside the pitch black fort,
the Dark place they call a soul,
There I have been divvied up,
Into parts from a Whole.
He says, he is my counterpart,
The Holy one, without the heart.
We share our highs and our lows,
With our drinks and our Blow.
He stays away from the light,
His face is yet to be seen.
He usually comes at night,
When I am doped with my sleep.
Is he a Friend, an Enemy perhaps?
Is he real, or Is this all a Show,
Or is It just, my Own Damned Shadow.
