They don’t live in the dark.
They live where you keep whispering their names
and calling it memory.
You say they haunt you,
but you leave the door unlocked,
set the table,
pour the drink,
and ask them how they’ve been.
They feed on routine —
the same thoughts,
the same lies,
the same wounds you pet like pets.
Stop feeding them.
Starve them with silence.
Name them once,
then burn the name.
Let the house go empty.
Let them wander hungry.
And when they beg to come home,
smile —
and say,
“I finally learned to eat without you.”
—Vazago
Oct 20, 2025
Oct 20, 2025 at 3:52 PM UTC
They don’t live in the dark.
They live where you keep whispering their names
and calling it memory.
You say they haunt you,
but you leave the door unlocked,
set the table,
pour the drink,
and ask them how they’ve been.
They feed on routine —
the same thoughts,
the same lies,
the same wounds you pet like pets.
Stop feeding them.
Starve them with silence.
Name them once,
then burn the name.
Let the house go empty.
Let them wander hungry.
And when they beg to come home,
smile —
and say,
“I finally learned to eat without you.”
—Vazago
This is not just a poem — it’s a manifesto for anyone who’s ever danced with their own shadows. “Stop Feeding the Demons” is a Luziferian call to reclaim sovereignty over the mind. It speaks to the gnostic truth that naming is power, and silence is a weapon. The demons we carry aren’t supernatural — they’re the stories we keep telling ourselves. This piece is for those ready to rewrite the script.
