My Insane Demons

If the goal was confusion, Then the game was well played out; But if demons didn't exist, I'll write more poems for hopeful answers. 'Cause every dreadful night, When the moon reaches its apex, Many things begin to change; Of which there are footsteps, That creep along and crack the wooden floors; A sense of perhaps intimidation, Walking steadily to awaken my fears. And what I've began to notice: More and more pages with my written poetry are becoming oddly perforated; In a manner that has me on the brink of crazy. Or is my mind just following a path of transmutation, Shown only after the sun sets? Perhaps what I see in pitch black, Is only a war against myself. I now know of two answers: Either I'm going insane and am able to find sanity somewhere when the sun rises, Or perhaps, Something just doesn't like my poetry; At all.