People say his poems are amazing.
He only writes of the horrors of life.
Of the tradgedies we call relationships.
Of the times we try so hard to hold on to.
Of all of the regrets we make.
Of all of the illusions we call fame and friendship.
But now he has no more inspiration.
Because the clock has chimed and he goes into his box.
Where he feels no emotion and can not feel pain.
Where love is a word on a page.
But he does not sacrifice.
And in this world he will suffice.
