There he is
Sitting alone in a corner
His home
The voices pillaging
His brain, his very being
Whispers transform
Into screaming
Constant dragging of nails
On that imaginary chalkboard
Everything is wrong
Every.
Single.
Thing.
He does.
Tears sting his eyes
Why is he here if all he does,
Is wrong?
Suicide...
Purging the world of his existence
The thought runs through his mind
A true conundrum
Is it the answer?
Possibly
But could he get it right?
No...
I suppose
The only thing left to do
Is to stay here
In his corner
His home
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