Someone please
Cut the demons
Out of my head
A virus circulating
I'd rather be dead
Poison in my veins
Starting to spread
Paralysing me bad
Like a shot of lead
And I could feel evil
Mixing in my heart
The righteousness
Inside all torn apart
Ink spills in my eyes
Cyanide in my brain
The mark of the lies
The flare of the pain
And I can't erase the
Blood on my hands
My broken bones heal
But now I understand
Now I think that I'm way
Beyond any form of help
Oh, what a shame that
You can't cut me out
From myself.
YOU ARE READING
To My Wayward Sons (Supernatural Poetry)
PoetrySupernatural poems that I write when all the: -massive emotional damage -overwhelming crack -severe obsession -rare inspiration -demon possessing me is too much to handle. 50% feels, 50% crack, 100% trash. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here! ××× ...
