The body
The art work
Trampled on
By feet so cold
But the feeling still there.

You're enraged
Deeply detesting
The world
And the people that draw swirls
And lap up the sounds of thunder.

You sit in that dusty room
Drunk and not coping
With the shudder
Of a broken arm
The cut on your top lip
Stinging.

The world turns
Like your stomach
You're sick and giving up
On the standards of living.