His exterior is ordinary
Inside he weeps,
Beneath he rots.

The stagnant air he breathes
Repulses him.

Beside himself,
No one knows.

Everything he was,
Stolen.

There's nothing left but words,
Meaningless to them.
Life support, itching to be let out.

The thoughts consume,
And burn him to ashes.

He still has his pen.

Let the dogs in,
Because the death of a poet
Will satisfy with masses.
A tragic lonely tale
Allured but reluctant.

Unaquainted with the world
Beside himself
Rotting inside out
A disaster
A relentless lonely tale.