I have demons,

The demons have me.

I don't know anymore.
They don't know either.

I have demons have me.

He isn't the moon,
But its sultry glow

He isn't the sun,
But its shine

He isn't the clock,
But its time

He isn't the hands,
But the holding

He isn't the poem,
But its rhyme

He isn't love,
But my heart

You were the canvas where my paint resided,
when you left, my masterpiece died.

Emotion can overtake and devotion can motivate,
We all want to know our fate until approaching the Holy gates,
Watching affection fade can lead to pretty lonely days
Not knowing our seconds are being thrown away, and so we wait.

Sensation can blind us, but phrases can guide us,
The cadence may fade but the sayings are timeless,
Some 'bravest' are spineless, some 'brainless' are brightest,
The making's expensive but the painting is priceless,

Passion enhances through passionate glances,
Life is controlling, we're just practising aren't we?

The girl was a novel awaiting to be read,
Sitting on a oak shelf with endless colors in her hair.
She wore her scars hidden behind her parchment clothes,
Dreaming about a chapter that had yet to be exposed.

She spent her days between the pages,
Falling behind in the world's story.
She had read herself so many times,
that she had forgotten to read the world once.

The girl was a novel awaiting to be read,
by someone rather than herself.
She had been consumed in her own pages,
lost in a sea unfathomably alone.

The girl never once turned to look beside her;
at the row of books left untouched on the same shelf.
They had always been there in their rainbow sea of colors;
their binders tattered and titles exposed.

She believed herself to be a book,
never a reader.

The oak shelf did nothing but
support her.

The girl was a novel awaiting to be read.
The girl was a novel awaiting to be favored.