For the love of the game.

Nights like those will test endurance.
Success on on nights like those requires grit and tastes only but bitter sweet,
as the demons will have exhausted but one or two topics
that have engrained in one’s mind and had required hardline
hypothetical decisions of emotional merritt to be made that in afterthought
would make one feel obdurate had it not all been so vital.

Oftentimes one’s consciousness is put on the defensive,
as demons are the ultimate antagonists.
When in attack mode, the demon writes you off and basically
grabs you by the hand or locks head-to-head with you and
drags you through a river of consciousness
wherein your every fin stroke is scrutinized and challenged
by a fatalistic conclusion drawn not in your favor.

That’s demons in a nutshell, for you.
That’s good old demon softball.
These demons.
They gotta be safe.
These demons are teenagers.
They don’t possess. They don’t possess shit.
They’re softball demons. Teenager demons. Peripheral demons.
Secondary consciousness demons. This isn’t the major leagues.

Real talk.
This isn’t what legends are made of.
This is just somebody’s personal hell and it will be forgotten.
The secular think I’m crazy, but that’s something you gotta worry about:
major league demons do exist. But in all cases, I believe in God;
Nobody’s gonna ever possess me and make me kill myself.
God won’t let that happen. Possessions are the most he allows which
are hardcore but surviveable. Even if the demon’s Barry Bonds,
fully grown and juiced up as he is, nobody’s gonna kill me.
God loves me too much.

If demons can’t bring me down, nothing else on earth may or will:
the oar, no — the motor — of my hopeful heart’s theory of mind.


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