Earnest most tears

He’s grown quite prone to a desolate home
So he colored his tome a bright red
In hopes it be read
By all unto death
For their critique would quake all he’s known
A wall of sorts
His enthralled court
A mind that plagues him to atone

Swinging a pen in sorrow, anger, in doubt
That anyone would want to read his mind
And know how his thoughts were worn-out
In love throughout his desolate time
As the quaking of his ears would define
The sighs as his vent as to implement
The pulsing of his earnest most tears

Deafening the sounds of one’s own grief
Blinded in the thoughts of ones known breach
That took your sanity
And traded nothing for relief
Leaving your mind to be defined as calamity
Though it’s nothing you should preach
To receive a certain sense of vanity
You must endure another self-loathing feast