I can only write in the darkness of the night,
When the creatures of my thoughts escape and take flight.
The blackness of their spirits does rend apart my mind,
These nocturnal demons are the result of pain and time.
They inspire me to scrawl my agony upon a page,
And when I scribe, they start to die, so that they may quell my rage.
My devils that I carry are my muses, but my bane,
With their prodding and their biting, I pray I shall be slain.
Each day brings more of them, these feverish, tiny imps,
And with their inspiration, comes a desire to go limp.
Such anguish I must bear, when they're a part of me,
They color my perception into the shades of gray I see.
I must rip them out so I can place these thoughts,
For if I don't, they swell and grow, and my joy begins to rot.
All these little goblins are a crux upon my back,
But without them there would be no way to decipher all the black.