My pains are trivial.
I am as the slightest murmur in a whirling, turning cacophony of screams of sound.
Often are the times when I feel insignificant, undeserving, cruel.
More so do I see the fake. The forced.
Why cannot you be genuine?
I so badly need to hear and
at your pains.
My face shall thump hollow at this door
till there is nought left of my head
or nought of the door.
Blackened and caved in.
I am fully drained