Demon Seed
by @manuel78 on Manuel
View my bio on Blurt.media: https://blurt.media/c/manuel78 
lyrics by me plus lyric generator
story below
**(Verse 1:
Wake up in the morning to scratching on my brain
Oh the pain... oh the sounds... make it stop...
They crawling out... through out my body aches
Demons breaking out... devouring from the inside out
Toying... destroying me... a soul destroyed by a demon seed
Eaten piece by piece... devoured alive...
**(Chorus:
(A soul destroyed!)
By a demon seed!
(Eaten piece by piece!)
Devoured alive!
[Deep bass drop emphasizes "alive", vibrating through the mix]
**(Bridge:
(Scratching on my brain... body aches... demons breaking... inside out...)
(Toying... destroying... piece by piece... alive...)
**(Instrumental Break
**(Verse 2
Wake up in the morning (to scratching on my brain!)
Oh the pain... oh the sounds... (make it stop!)
They crawling out... (through out my body aches!)
Demons breaking out... (devouring!) from the inside out
Toying... (destroying me!)... a soul destroyed by a demon seed
Eaten piece by piece... (devoured alive!)
**(Chorus:
(A soul destroyed!)
By a demon seed!
(Eaten piece by piece!)
Devoured alive! [Heaviest bass drop yet]
**(Outro:
...devoured alive...
...demon seed...
...scratching...
[Fade out on drone, violin, and the slow, fading pulse of the tribal drum.]
story based off lyrics made with Ai
- The Itch Inside
Morning. A thin, gray light bled around the blinds. Silas lay still, eyes open, listening. The city below was a distant murmur, a low hum he paid a premium to mute. But this sound was internal, paid for by a different currency. It started behind his left eye—a faint, dry, percussive friction. A phantom fingernail dragging across the chalkboard of his consciousness. Not a thought, but the precursor to all thought: scratching.
Wake up in the morning to scratching on my brain.
It wasn't loud, but it was total. It filled the space where peace should have been. A deep, subsonic dread vibrated up from his gut, syncing with the scratch in a terrible rhythm. The sensation translated, as it always did, into a bouquet of pains. A pressure behind his brow. A tight coil in his neck.
Oh the pain… oh the sounds… make it stop…
The ‘sounds’ were the ghosts the scratching summoned: a high-pitched whine just at the edge of hearing, the rustle of a million insect legs. His plea was silent, automatic, and utterly useless.
The torment migrated, becoming flesh. They crawling out… through out my body aches. A deep, hot throb settled in his right shoulder. A stabbing tightness seized his lower back. It felt less like an ache and more like something within the muscle, writhing, trying to reshape his very skeleton from the inside to better suit its purpose. Which was, he had come to understand, consumption.
Demons breaking out… devouring from the inside out.
His demons had no faces. They were systems. A system of regret that metabolized every past choice into poison. A system of anticipation that turned the future into a maze of potential catastrophes. They weren't external invaders; they were his own patterns, weaponized. They were toying… destroying me…, their game a slow unraveling. A soul destroyed by a demon seed. The seed had been a single, forgotten moment of profound shame twenty years ago. It had germinated in the dark soil of his solitude.
He could chart the progress of the feast. His appetite for life: gone, digested last Tuesday. His ability to lose himself in a book or music: consumed the week before that. His memory of his mother’s genuine laugh: a delicate morsel, savored and swallowed yesterday. Eaten piece by piece… devoured alive. The horror was in the awareness. He was both the dinner and the diner, forced to witness every bite.
The cognitive and somatic fused into a silent, screaming crescendo. The internal monologue shattered into stark, brutal declarations that pounded in time with the scratch.
(A soul destroyed!)
By a demon seed!
(Eaten piece by piece!)
Devoured alive!
The word "alive" was the punchline. He had to be awake for this. Oblivion would have been a mercy; this was a sentence.
Sometimes, in a fit of twisted defiance, he would rise. He’d pace the perimeter of his luxury apartment, his footsteps a staccato counter-rhythm to the internal noise. He’d chant the litany back at the emptiness, his voice a low, guttural rasp, layering distortion over the raw truth.
(Scratching on my brain… body aches… demons breaking… inside out…)
(Toying… destroying… piece by piece… alive…)
It was an exorcism that never took. It only organized the chaos, gave the suffering a beat, turned his private hell into a perverse, solitary dance club where the only guest was his agony.
He’d collapse into an armchair, drenched in a cold sweat. The internal soundscape would then reach its symphonic peak—a sound no one else would ever hear. A weeping violin of sheer neural distress. A distorted guitar wail of existential despair. Complex, frantic tribal drums that were just the runaway gallop of his own heart. A dark symphony, perfectly produced in the studio of his skull.
The wheel turned. Dawn. Wake up in the morning (to scratching on my brain!) The parentheses were the grim certainty of the connoisseur. Oh the pain… oh the sounds… (make it stop!) The plea was now a bitter footnote to the main text of suffering. They crawling out… (through out my body aches!) The confirmation, the welcome of an old, hated guest.
Demons breaking out… (devouring!) from the inside out The verb now an accusation he leveled at himself.
Toying… (destroying me!)… a soul destroyed by a demon seedHis identity, his title.
Eaten piece by piece… (devoured alive!)His ongoing condition.
The chorus returned. This time, his internal voice held no shred of resistance. It was a flat, powerful, exhausted announcement of fact. The final roar of a man already gone.
(A soul destroyed!)
By a demon seed!
(Eaten piece by piece!)
Devoured alive!
The last bass drop of acceptance shook him to his core.
Then, nothing. The internal cacophony cut out as if a switch had been thrown. He was left in the sudden, absolute quiet of the room, hollowed out. Only the foundational drone of his isolation remained. A single, lingering note of pure hurt hung in the void. The slow, fading tribal pulse was just the mechanical thud of his heart in a body that felt like rented, ruined property.
In the profound stillness, the last whispered fragments of his consciousness drifted like dust motes in a shaft of that gray, morning light.
…devoured alive…
…demon seed…
…scratching…
They were just sounds now, emptied of meaning. He sat, a vacant shell in a perfectly silent, expensive room. The feast was over. The demon was sated. For now. He waited, empty, for the cycle to renew, for the itch to begin again, the first signal of the next day’s slow, meticulous digestion.