The Fat Spencer's Gym

The malice. The mischief. He hates, to the core. The endearment previously has shrouded him so much, that he took for granted. He esteemed the fact of undeniable trust, protection and love. All but a mist of lies.
A submerging sea of anger, fraud emerges.
The rules, the ideologies, he seemingly had no ascertainty of life.
Arose a demon, tearing his soul, ripping it, devouring it, refusing any clemency.
He pondered, took a puff, and asked God.

He staggered on in his life.
He couldnt distinguish between heartburn and ache.
His mind reminsiced, but the heart wouldnt approve of it.
He sought alcohols, the momentarily rapture was needed.

He staggered on, but the gates went shut.
The dimunitive form of life was no pressure, in contrary to the torment he knew.
Until someone,
took a wrench and fervently opened the gates.

He was keen to open it,
but he couldnt tuck his inferiority complexity.
The intimidation, was luring him back to staggering.

Any fleeting-fervent-faithless moment, was prominent.
He was perplexed,
He yearn to unclog his mind,
but his heart wasnt functioning anymore.

He busk in the beautiful shafts of moonlight,
reaching out to the sky.
He knew something,
His heart is dead.