my demons


"Tell me about your demons," they said,
With their still eyes, and their sane smile,
And they didn't notice my raised skin-hair
Or why I let out a sigh and a smile instead,
And I'm glad for it.

My demons are not at all like you know them,
They're not hideous, or creatures that strike at night, no;
They're rarely ethereal, on occasion formless,
Not too loud, but quite good listeners, yes,
For they've heard all my lies.

You see, the lies are important, always have been,
Artists, bankers, lawyers, athletes we all need them,
My lies mirror my pretentions and truest intentions,
And they know, and in they come mocking, quiet,
With their scornful eyes, and their lies.

I don't recall not being insecure, fragile, confused;
I've worn several masks, too many to count,
And while many have fit, and adored,
None seem anything more than masks, visages,
But I carry them all nonetheless.

And my demons, they don't like being talked about,
And they hurt me like a ritual, and I give in,
And they take their time to go away
Into the dark background, where they lurk,
For they are all me.

So when you ask me about them,
I don't know how to tell you,
I'm the demons you can't know,
I'm the answer you can't see,
I'm the hideous mess you musn't feel.

my demons
Written by Yash Raj Talan

[note to self: there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in]


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