When each day is a step toward evil death and decay,
the fabric of your brain is being burned to obey.

No substance or chemicals make his voice change,
cannot hide from his forceful range.

Demons play games through my muscle and bone,
carving away a place to call there home.

No crimson blood is left in my veins,
acid eats through my skin as it drains.

He screams that we are the same,
he screams that I am not insane.

My conscious is something that I created,
who I am is something to be debated.

Emotions are something I made inside,
just to create a safe place to hide.

I see the devil in my head and soul,
he is the comfort and warmth to make me whole.

If the devil isn't in hell to be damned,
then the devil is what I hold in my hand.
IMO everything here is quality writing except for "to make me whole" - sounds like you just want it to rhyme. But just one man's opinion.

I'm guessin the devil is your inner badness. If so, love it.