I don't light up to open my mind,
     But to temporarily silence the demons.
    And right now
   The monsters are climbing into
  My eyes
      Ears
  Mouth
Heart
  And ripping apart
     Every solid piece of myself
           I used to care about.

      They’re laughing,
     Dripping venom,
    Burning me over and
  Over and
OVER again.
Making me scream so silently
That no one else knows.  
  No one else can hear
   The fleshy sound of
    Wet skin
     Being torn
      From the outside, in.
 
They don’t see
   My hands bound
    To my own demented thoughts
   Making me do things
       I’d once refused.

      I see in flames now
     I see the world burning
    I see rubble,
   Wreckage and
  Ruins.
I see remnants of a
Person I used to love, used to know.

So lift me up higher than I’ve ever been before
To suppress the inner creatures
Controlling
A newfound stranger.

These foul slithering figures
Don’t dance across the page
As they spill from my pen
Dripping, smudging, bleeding
They sit and idly stare.

Language is deceiving,
For words cannot weep
Or scream and cry
They do not laugh
Or dream or sigh

They twist themselves in knots
And feign sincerity,
Tangled on my tongue
A thick web of
Self-proclaimed eloquence

With each sullen rhyme and
Insipid adjective
I am convinced
Of the lies in these disguises;
Words are futile devices.

Sometimes I pray with all my soul,
To the God I believe in,
Knowing that those prayers are futile,
But my heart is a vagabond who gives its whole,
For those prayers which make me feel they might come true, for a while.
I wish for it, I pray for it,
Even when I know I won’t get it.
Yet my heart gets hauled towards only those wishes,
Which I know are futile,
The prayers which make me feel they might come true, for a while.
So I permit my heart to employ these prayers,
And talk to the God I believe in.
I let Him only listen and let my heart free,
Knowing that its a prisoner who can never be set free.
When I say these prayers,
There is a ease of pain, sense of relief.
Knowing these feelings will leave,
My adamant heart still prays which is futile,
The prayers which make me feel they might come true, for a while.
At times I sense that I am addicted to these prayers,
These futile prayers coax me towards them,
Make my heart a wayfarer who prays,
Only the prayers which make me feel they might come true, for a while.