Fighting my demons are always hard For they have the poet's mind That lured me in their metaphors of the taste of the sun or the comfort of solitude
They pull me in between their lines of Desperation and depression As if basking in the sunlight will make it less empty
They tangle me in the swirl of the words Embracing me with each broken thorn of a flower, or every drizzle of the rain, or every blanket of snow or the feel of the breeze As if those imagery will make it less painful; Written in papyrus with the ink as thick as blood and teardrops on the footnotes As if those drops can lessen the burden that clutches my chest
They envelope me with every space in between their words as if letting me breathe but then they enter cutting the peace in between letters but never putting a period to end this miserable excuse for a poem they made me
It's all a hallucination An endless illusion for in the end I'm still chained, existing with this void inside and with my demons Eating the life out of me
Then suddenly pressing save for all the world to see without even really saving me