Demons are real. They are just like us, in words and movement, and are sent to us in beautiful forms. They often look like you, and even have manipulation wrapped around their fingers. Demons are real, and they are us.
Today my demons told me I am loved, but how wrong they are.
Yesterday my demons told me I will stay alone forever, wrong again I say.
My demons make it hard, knowing that the dreams I hold close could be ripped away, taken somewhere to be conveniently brought back when its reminder will torture me the most.
When life is good, my demons sit on my shoulder, whisper in my ear and remind me of all the ways demons are real. When life is bad, they sit back and wonder at their work.
I am an unworthy opponent to their genius.
Demons are real. They are the deeper, unspoken versions of us. In thought and prayer, they cannot be repelled as their overwhelming allure takes hold of us. They often look like you, but more often look like me.
Demons are real, and they are us.
A Series of Observations 