Shell persona

Silenced only by life’s natural progression

His chronicles archived in a musty poetry restaurant

Only when using his pens gave him the sensation of living,

The darkness temporarily given luminosity

Still, underneath the exterior was an unhappy being

Tortured and tormented by his own psychosis’s

Wandering through his lifetime looking for a place to belong

Words and complete sentences were his drug,

The one time he felt as he was all shot up with happy

Unfortunately, other times he spent time wasted shot down and taking shots

Only a few mourn him, as too many were only familiar with the shell

though his poetry restaurant is a must see