I took my devils out,
And I broke their hearts.
I took them out dinner
just to watch the starve.

I laid upon that table:
Angst, ego and every blue.
Saliva ran like it was fatal;
they thought the feast would soon ensue.

" Heres my head", I calmly said.
" My heart's yours as well".
Then on each I calmly fed,
as they spun back down to hell.

" Feast on Your Beasts"

Thy verse is “sad” enough, no doubt:
  A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why we should weep I can’t find out,
  Unless for thee we weep in pity.

Yet there is one I pity more;
  And much, alas! I think he needs it:
For he, I’m sure, will suffer sore,
  Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.

Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic,
  May once be read—but never after:
Yet their effect’s by no means tragic,
  Although by far too dull for laughter.

But would you make our bosoms bleed,
And of no common pang complain—
If you would make us weep indeed,
Tell us, you’ll read them o’er again.

Angst paces around the room gibbering to himself, and scratching the hair off his head. “ I need, I need to find it. Ally’s key… Aye, just the mad hing to lock it”. The door’s been left open for weeks, and the filth has been pouring in relentlessly: “ My Boyfriend was average till he discovered these miracle pills”, “ Icelandic Brides”, “ Think Rich. Be Rich”, “ Wonga: YOU pay when YOU can”, “. It’s all piled up and yet scattered throughout this already cluttered space; mixing in with the mess of the severed heads and rolling eyes. Angst paces through the filth, eating some every other hour. But he carries on searching for the key  ( or the wee hing) he needs to shut all this out and think.

He lights a cigarette from one of the candles on the long table(12 chairs accompany the piece, but there is only one, as there is only need for one just now) and passes the rest of the day watching the smoke swivel into a thumbs up icon or a question mark in a thought bubble( or anything else blue and white). All the while sifting through the filth  for that wee hing’; stopping every hour or so to feed on it.

These hollow voices haunt my head space.
Following me room to room, place to place,
thought to thought till I wear them on my face.
I'll take down the mirrors, I'll paint windows
black. I can't see them dressed in my clothes.
"Snap back. Snap back. It is me, young sanity."
We've walked this walk before. It's harmless.
Let us wonder off now. We can return to calmness
once we've stepped past our farthest darkness.
What we find in this mind, you and I will share.
Lets take one together, and of each other take care.
"Snap back. Snap back. It is me, young sanity."
You're too late. You're too late. You're too late to see
the voices that are walking all over you and me,
Through and throughout, shouting " This life is free".
You can't come walking with us.  You'll get lost.
And I'm afraid I am not willing to pay that cost.
"Snap back. Snap back. It is me, young sanity."
The ground snaps, and they all fade as they fall.
For no windows or mirrors can ramble on and on like a wall.

The shortest of fall,
                          from the highest of grace.
Then off we crawl
                             back to our rightful place
                    in the middle.
                            

Count
          each
                   step  
                           on
                               your
                                     way
                                             down.
                                                      
                                             Pass
                                      your
                               ego
                       and
                  the
         clown
That you used to dress up as on nights out.

A single shot through both of their heads.

    The ego, the ego, the ego is dead.

The sleeping pill awoke,
     walked up the stairs
     and down my throat.
     From my stomach it spoke:

    " Sleep's the lie that wakes you.
   The Lord can & will soon take you. "

I don't mind hearing voices from time to time, for they keep me company in lonely hours. They never say anything harsh, hate filled or humiliating, they just chatter on while I sit here in silence watching the paint dry- thats not a metaphor or anything, I literally did paint the walls red this morning. I don't think I've don a very good job though, because I see little devils in the sloppy brushwork; They do hurt, throw hate and humiliate me.

I really need to put on a second coat, but I'm tired and the voices aren't telling me to move yet. I'll wait for their command, or for the devils to walk up and off the wall. Oh boy, then I'll have some real company. A crowd some would say.