I know creation,
The ins and outs
Of how it’s done.
A temporal tool,
Granting a brief existence
To that which wasn’t.

The void-thoughts pen
Words and images,
Appeasing demons
From the Hellish landscape
That is my mind.

But how does one utilize
A propensity for destruction?
I give voice to the voices,
I create
And so they remain.
Imparting crooked pointers,
Chittering in the shadows,
They’ve found a home,
In me,
And I’m too weak to fight
And too kind to cast them out.


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