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