A poet on the run,
he's escaping his own head.
This ******, broken son,
stands to where he's fled.
Quiet; maybe it's best,
that a pen's his only friend.
They're pounding on his chest,
yet only his hand ascends.
So many words wasted,
that he should've said.
"All of y'all are faceless,
to me you're just the dead,"
Because somewhere along the journey,
his humanity faded too.
They laughed and called him 'worthy,'
as his pupils changed their hue.
"Dead, you're all dead!
Can y'all truly not see?
Take your souls, and leave my bed,
before I forget who I used to be"
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