i am not an artist,

i am a conduit.

a demonic infestation,

is wanting

to be let inside.

it whispers to me,

softly, “let me in.”

banging.

banging.

banging.

oppression, followed

by the possession,

begging for an exorcism.

the most diabolical haunting,

the voices, they echo,

the walls, pounding –

willing me to listen.

the yellow wallpaper,

moving, telling stories.

and the illustrated man

sleeps.

dark corners, become alive.

everything looks so different

in the darkness.

pick up the instrument,

command it to move.

one stroke, and then

another.

is it fate,

or fluke?

magic

or genius?

i am being played with.

a voodoo doll,

violently shaken

like a rag.

the mortal pawn,

for the universe’s

divine hand.