When his brains hit the celling
He got high of the feeling
Of a blanket of nothing sweeping over him
A beckoning rope, a creeping lack of hope, brought on and enticed the Grimm,
Grip of death, to clench at the breath, of a poor broken soul
Scared from the past, ignored til at last, the Reaper collected his toll
A family left reeling, enveloped in the feeling, of loss and of sorrow
They search for the why, why their son chose to die, and leave a regretful tomorrow
A blood-splattered room, and a book titled “Gloom”, were all that was there to be found
On every page, lay words ripe with rage, the story of hate being crowned,
King of his mind, the only thing left behind, was a cold, grateful corpse
and the words on this paper of course…