Dragged dirty slimy, smelly on midst of dying.
Closed to discompose on every night of crying.
No fears for the future he seen the mess lying.
Figures of disgusted people are common and their hands drying.
He boosts the smell to discomfort the rest just by moving.
He maintains the walk to a minimum because his limbs are routing.
Doors are closing as he walks by them smiling.
The streets are cold as the people on it walking and laughing.
He is just waiting for the heavens to call him screaming.
He expects no one and no one has his love in famine.
There is only hate in him, so he hopes he's dreaming.
The feeling of love vanished when she walked away cheating.
He lost contact with his family long ago and now he's grieving.
The little attention he used to get now is dimming.
The list of people he knew has shortened and not even one reveling.
What is keeping him alive? Maybe our self-portrait if we give up feeling.
