When I'm aware of what I shouldn't do
Far, far too often I, despite of knowing,
Feel half or more compelled to do it, through
Some mad and desperate impulse, in whose growing
There is an undercurrent of the brute
Who throws himself with violent excess
Into the worst of it, as in pursuit
Of newborn pain to fill his emptiness.
So though I know my situation well,
And can admit in calm times what is best,
I still will risk descending into hell
Each day, as sure as sunset's to the west
For I lack the composure to remain
Wise while the beast in me rages insane.
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