reality vs fiction

He sits quite in his room,
with nobody knocking.

Purple and blue lights swirl around his eyes,
with great demise,
as he lifts his own lies to the air.

Tv echoing past shows of beautiful styles of art.

posters littered the walls,
emo tendencies huh.

music playing in the background,
rock or somesort.

He types away at his little poems,
as he finally lays.

He thinks,
where truly am i,
am i in heaven,
or hell.

this is his time to strike,
bare the hands of flight,
and fly away my son,
fly away