His life was messy, of course that's what
happens when you not just hit bottom, but
when you've crashed through it. He had
lost his divine grace, assuming he ever
had any, leaving a gash in his psyche, his
sense of being worth-while torn like just so much
confetti.
His fall, the epitome of those who masked
self-hatred with work. Loathing was his disease,
prone to of self-degregation thinly disguised as
modesty, he would drag out his pain during encore
after encore of demanded success.
Success soon took a backseat to the relief of failure
measured by cigarette after cigarette consuming him
in his quiet suicide. He never said, "good bye" or
"I'm sorry" as his relationships imploded under his
attacks of violence, alcohol and drugs, soon leaving
him completely alone.
His self-hatred and loathing soon consumed his
very soul, leaving a wretched carcature
of humanity that drove away all living creatures.
He continued his downward spiral, careening out
of control until he finally touched Death, causing
him to careen just one final time.
He laid in a disgusting back alley, an unwashed,
fetid lump that once was human. He had finally
achieved proof to a world that no longer cared,
what he had known all, that he was as worthless
in death as he believed himself to be in life,
all along.
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