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.
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