The loneliness consumes me
like a disease marked black with the stench of death.
A feeling of isolation comes and goes,
as sometimes I like it,
and sometimes I don't.
The weathered floor of my mediocre bedroom
is home to deep crevasses of anguish and agony.
The walls beat with the vibrations
of my hard metal
and stiffled cries.
A dresser stuffed with cheap clothes
and items with sharp edge
is damaged from th punches I dish.
As I fall into the cracks in th floor,
I give one final battle cry,
loud enough for the world to hear.
But it never will.