title in poem

OUR LORD, THEIR GOD, SUPRESSOR OF MY TRUE BEHAVIOUR Like a dog. Forced to get the same newspaper. Over and over and over again. Every, single day. For so, so long. It's grown tired. When it returns home, it returns to praises. "Good job! look at you!". But why bother to applaud the dog that has no choice? Muzzled; teeth held shut by the HIS hand. "Good dog!" Good dog. Good dog? Wrong mind? It's instincts tell me to rip the newspaper up. Chew it. Swallow. It's mouth waters, tongue twitches. Oh. But the beatings it would bear. The same owners who dote and adore would maim and scream. Louder than it could ever bark. Not that it could ever dare. So it walks back home with the same newspaper ever day, ever day. They continue to make the young do the the old trick. It's grown tired. I've grown tired.