There's a demon that latches itself to my spine.
I am plagued by him sometimes when I'd rather be doing something else.
He calls himself Poetry and tends to ramble, overanalyzing trivial matters.
He rips at my soul,
Tears at my thoughts,
Rends my emotions,
Shreds my hopes,
Ruptures my fears.
He plucks at my eyes, eviscerating my visions.
Savagely, he defiles my ethics.
When he has had his way with me, I am left vacant,
I am left empty,
Vacuous,
Deserted.
I am left but a shell,
With words.