The darkest hour of the night
Is when my demon is impossible to fight
The usual commands are to kill
Or to pursue some erotic thrill

Images of the jet black knife
Taking some unknown persons life
And theres always so much blood
That always comes in a flood
The evil voice whispers from inside
Of all the people that should of died
And if there is no blade to thrust
Then it sings to me of an evil lust
At first it is only a gentile caress
That carries along a ragged breath
But then the clothes hit the ground
And nothing is safe or sound
The scratching, the biting, and the tearing
And the unbearable heat from a lustful passion burning

Unfortunately I cannot divine
Why this voice sounds so much like mine
The obvious answer is plain to see
That this is no voice of a demon, but the voice of me

Tyrone Wingfield

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-demon-2/