Written Works of Abstract Art

Demons

You build walls, but the roof still falls in, and the rain keeps pouring down.

Your clothes are black, but your blood is red.

Thin lines on a white canvas, an artistic expression hidden under wraps.

You build walls, for the sole purpose of discovering who cares enough to tear them down.

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Rain and blood fall on the black stained glass.

An endless moment, one to never pass.

Who would know? How could they tell,

That inside lives a demon, drawing back to hell?

Fallen teardrops scattered all around,

Lays a body twisted on the ground.

Though they look there, never will they see

The shattered screaming, 'please, don't help me.'

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It's like being given a death sentence. Even though you're living now, and ought to value what's left of your existence, nothing can take away the inevitability. You have lost all control.

I depend on that which I hated most.

I loathe those who try and save me, for by saving me they also destroy who I am inside.

It's like having a part of you ripped out slowly.

I live with laws based on hypocrisy and double standards, and I ask where justice lies.

But it's like shouting for help in a world of deaf ears, and

no one comes.

Your saving words destroy me.

Each time you open a door, another one closes.

I asked you to listen, but each time I speak, you draw further away.

Don't listen to anything I say.

Can you tell what someone's saying when they're screaming?

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