He weeps at his own internal mess.
Internal dysfunction or plain pain of his life demis.
Paranoia cries with imaginary. He told it to leave, but it lingers.
Monsters eat at his brain, nibbling until his eyes rest.
Tears of pain burn his cheeks. His soul is on fire. No desires.
Eyes of worry, sights of flying clouds. When will it end?
Alone. Internally alone. Drugs. He wants drugs. Pain go away.
Branches. He wants them to take him. Puncture him.
Physical pain will settle his mind.
Paranoia. Flying gypsies. Crawling whispers flowing up to his nostrils.
His heart is full of love. His soul is full of fluttering butterflies.
Where is the laughter? Internal laughter.
Outer layers are fake.
One sip of his whiskey, one step out of the dark, the warm sun glitters his day.
8 hours is his only life. He is awake. He is aware.
Until he goes back into his dark cave.