Preservation of this darkened martyr

is wrapped up in a hideous cloak of gloom

hunched up, never revealing

is he even breathing?

underneath the dim lit bulb

that is only throwing out threats of breaking the fog

no clarity breeds forth here in this deceivers curse

his persecution is contrived from these bleeding walls

where the phantom enemies of time gone by still roam

stabbing suffering right on through his mind

the demons of his sickened history

now only gaping fatalities digging into his skin

refusing to leave until they have sucked the life from him

but he wouldn’t have it any other way

he cannot refuse the mocking jibes, the heartache drowning his insides

he feeds off it like a leech

his memories hypnotise and transfix to the chaos

vibrating clear descriptions up from the floor boards

they tear their way through every room

they are too severe to be extinguished

too beautiful to resist the playback

the emotionally degrading scenes

the anguish and broken bones that depict his life

the reminder is needed and so often repeated

new content sought after to create more damage

more uncaring people to brand him an outcast

his pitiful eyes that only reach into an overactive channel to the void

black spheres of eternal lost connection that perfectly mimic being numb

they play the same old line again – no one is home inside these wells

only the suffering sustains his worthless longing

all he has felt all his life, his addiction now only to proceed

he needs to feel, he wants to believe

he deserves what he gets, in order to survive this mess

the intensity of surrounding fire echoes up out from his dreams

the result of every ones inflicted rage

breaking sanity with twisted persuasion

snapping his will to leave it alone, like a powerless twig

with the ability to destroy his every waking hope and more

the breath of pain, every single day

he sits still motionless flicking through his book of hurt

on his feces stained mattress still seeping abuse

and disastrous trails of dedicated screams

from those distant penetrating collisions

in the darkest hours of the night

listening to the moths battering the light

barely swallowing the rain of tortured acceptance

collecting like valuables in his ears

with the tell-tale moisture stinging deep within his soul

he is thinking of doing it all again tomorrow

meeting someone new and letting them break him

in just another chapter of his book that he calls life