I get so mad at myself sometimes
that my failures wash away my pride,
yet I choose to fail, so do I choose to die?
I’m on the frontlines of the wars inside.

I hold my head down low in shame
and then pick it back it up like it’s just a game,
are the letters of my demons anagrammed into my name?
I’m the wick burning up, all the same I am the flame.

Take “Aaron Michael Lynn,” and then
extract from it the anagram.
It reads: “Call me Hanna Irony”
a name that I cannot unsee.

Hanna Irony commit
to my demise before I quit,
you’re no surprise I must admit
your fire eyes are sole culprit.

Down below the docks you dwell,
a siren sounding from the wells
of Heaven sometimes then from Hell;
a hermit, I hide in my shell.

Take “Aaron Michael Lynn” and then
dissect from it the anagram.
It Reads: “Hello I am Annan Cry”
I’ll weep with her, dare not defy.

Annan Cry, a friend to me;
do you know Hanna Irony?
If so go tell her if you please,
“Fires falter on the sea.”

I feel so pleased with myself at times
that my failures wash away, but pride
will breech the beaches of my mind.
I’m waving flags and making truces deep down inside.


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