When he was young he kept his emotions inside.
They stayed their until they finally took him over.
Never had he felt this way.
No body was home, everything hurt, and the pain was to much to be receiving.
For some time poison provided a safe haven.
The more problems he had the more he took.
Even though he hated what he had become he continued on.
He became comfortably numb.
He wanted to change and tried to.
He often looked out of the corner of his eye to see his dreams far away but still afloat.
One pin prick after another just added weight to him.
Making it harder to achieve what he wanted.
Now he lies in his room dumb, deaf, and alone.
He was finally able to isolate himself from the problems he faced.
No one knew he was gone until a foul smell came from his room.
No one knew what had happened as the corner rolled his body out.
His death wasn't sad, the fact that no one cared is what was the tragedy.
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