Demons and Ashtrays

A strictly amateur poet, I love constructive critism.

We knew that wicked things
slept behind his eyes:
A brilliant head
resting on mad shoulders.

He could write the world
on paper,
could pen the stars
in ink.

He says he's alone
and the world is cold.
Voices will not quiet;
so he cannot write.

He wants his mind back,
but with a laugh he tells me,
the demons pay their rent.

He tried to pray for sanity
but in the morning
he couldn't remember
even what he prayed for,
or even who he was.

We didn't know just what he saw
(I'd fight it back with knives)
but only he could see it
and it lived inside his mind.