Now comes he, draped in shadow,
Walking along meek and shallow,
The emo, all bleak and pale,
His face contorted, ready to wail.

Chains and spikes cover him head to toe,
And his chest is all covered by "All Time Low."
His dark eyes look empty, mournful and sad,
Peering off distantly, making him look wildly mad.

Bony and scrawny, not built at all,
You wouldn't find him caught in a brawl.
Not that he would ever fight or even be seen
for he is the ghost that haunts others' dreams.

Out of sight, feeling obsolete,
No one to see him, crushed beneath their feet.
Left alone to wallow in despair,
Not a turn of the head or a single care.

He just waist for the day of his death,
When death will come and take his breath.
Finally an end to this pitiful life,
Maybe even from the point of a knife.

But no matter how hard he tried he could never succeed,
To end it all with that fatal deed.
Though blood may run down his sleeve,
His life refuses to take its leave.

So he lives on, a part of the shadow,
A wraith, a witch, waiting for the gallows.
Not seeking happiness, a life or to ascend,
Only waiting for his time, his end.