The Slow Creep of the Subconscious
I lock my deamons in the basement.
Until they itch to break free.
They grab me from behind
And catch me with their teeth.
I try to force them back under
But the dark poison needs to spew.
It's tearing me asunder.
No one knows, so secrets grew.
I confront them, a momentary pause.
Enough to lock them up again
Until they're ready with their claws.
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