Another night,
One more genocide
Not out in the world,
Somewhere inside
An attempt to murder, eliminating targeted feelings,
Preventing the work in progress for his constant existence.
So he tried to kill em, like the last time,
An endeavour to strangle those feelings in their prime.
And it was only right that he got rid of em,
Cause the cubicle he was confined in.
He never had the privilege to have those feelings in the first place,
It was a dream of his own being, acquired and yet restricted,
For his own great (or they said).
But now he was weaker, and his feeble attempt failed,
Drowned in those feelings, he cried and wailed.
A couple of nights went by, but survival instinct never took over,
He drowned and drowned, perhaps it’d be soon over.
But even after days, they still piqued him with the spears of guilt in his chest,
And it broke open (not going over the borders of his blanket), seeping of those pests,
Pests he called solitude, even though he knew what it really was,
It was his fear of consequences, yet again he was a lost cause.
He’s still quiet,
And he won’t ever speak.
Though a lost cause,
Someone was still within reach.

.    .    .