The demons stare at me,

with their, as old as powerful, black eyes,

their mouth speak the language

my mother always kept me away from.

Back then, all I was taught was to

stand and stare back,

my ears complaining to be bellyful

to digest the language to my brain.

But now, all I do is write down their names,

try to evolve their language

edible enough for my brain,

and finally,

exhibit to everyone to taste.

And that's how I first became acquainted,

with the poet inside me.