I.
the background noises in his head,
they make him wish he were dead,
make him afraid to tread,
an endless bloody red thread.
a tight-gripped gun,
a twisted kind of fun.
fueled by inferiority complex,
makes him grip a loaded gun of god-complex.
II.
reckless and unaware,
treading heavily into places no one could bear.
the trauma of countless no more
capitalized and embossed into his core.
a perfect villainous smile,
vile,
nailed into his metaphorically unbreakable cranium,
distorted invested repressed tantrum.
II b.
he is hell bent,
yet heavenly sent.
regretfully,
sadly.
III.
he just wants to fill the emptiness,
a validation of his worthiness.
his head is the seven seas of confusion,
with a room mirroring the worst reflection.
IV.
shotgun clacking,
a madman in the making,
unloaded,
“fire it!”
fired.
V.
a deafening heartbeat under his ribs,
poor souls forcefully reaped,
ghosting the veil,
who’s going to tell the tale?
VI.
“what have I done?”
a dropped empty god-complex shotgun.
VII.
one, two, three, four, five, six, sev-
before he guns himself.