Neither poetry or prose written
A bastard child of a bastard's mind
Gigantic run on sentences meaningless
The context is taken out before
It can be understood even by the author
Everyone else left puzzled at crossed words
Falling endlessly down to Perdition
Returning as embers of a dead fire
Cold emotionless things of a heart
Dead as stone and just as lifeless
Energy converted to base matter
Yet still they gush out like slit wrists
Bloody rivulets twisting down a page
Leaving the evidence of a murdered soul
Taken before the body can turn to rigor
Evaporating in a red dew on faded leaves
Where others turn away from the grotesque
He has become over his years of existance
Rejected outright for what he is not
Never accepting what strangeness is
Contained confined condemned
An other not a part of anything
Just a gray thing sitting in the corner
Left in invisiblity unseen in the crowd
To be ignored passed by in the past
Lost in anguished thoughts written.
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