Forsaken by all in the times of dire,
He, who shall run, has no such desire
To leave all his dreams slowly sink in the darkness
Of future disastrous demolishing madness.
He rises, he falls, wipes the tears, stands up,
Takes his pride, rips apart, hands covered in blood,
Checks his heart, it's okay, slowly dying inside,
But who cares, he's alone! No one hears him moan.
Diabolical agony tears him apart,
But not physical. Mental, somewhere inside
His heart still spits out rivers of blood
To fulfill his endless pain delight.
He likes it, enjoys it,
Adores it and loves it.
He wants to love something
And to fill that it loves him.
It doesn’t. Will never. He’s doomed to be lone.
By the person who causes him painfully moan.
((OOC: Written by me. Thought to share. Not a poet and not planning to be one.))
