A greasy, thin mop of blazing red fire,
Milky complexion with looks so sickly.
Need of hobbies and human friends so dire.
With head low, he walks with purpose, quickly.
Surely an outcast in society,
To himself he spits out fragments of rage.
“You’re worthless;” words straight from anxiety.
Self-hatred so deep at such a young age.
The voices in his subconscious prevail.
Medication left on the counter top.
Roof of the building he stands: “just inhale.”
At this point he feels as if there’s no stop.
Eyes sowed shut, weightless, head pounding.
Schizophrenia, always surrounding.