This Thing Called Loneliness

Being lonely isn't quite really being,
for your soul and body find nowhere to be,
no meaning of existence;
and no,
you find no way anywhere to anywhere.

Photos in thousands in HDD pile;
nothing stands out except the outstandings.
Browsing through them you find weird voice
whispering, mumbling, shouting, screaming,
in your head.
"Bang," then, is the voice you make, and
you scheme to kill it,
loneliness the friend you once called,
to make friend with the personality opposite.

With efforts you destroy those linking past,
hoping that drains energy of the friend
and a dead body make it.
The night before the dawn of life anew you find
failure, for a zombie it is you made.

Shotguns you then pull; level 10 fireball you cast;
magic pets you summon, and out of the mess you create,
it stands.
Slowly yet firmly it moves close.

Ammo you have none; mana you are in drought;
and even magic pets have bled to death.
So, you run,
into an endless traveling in the Web,
only to find
endless traveling in the endless Web
traps firmer the endless traveler and
makes nearer the ending time.
And thus loneliness is wasted,
though you often him a friend called.

Before the apple tree you had a bite,
with a grin you conquer with a pride;
And then you find conquered not you it,
for grab nothing you beside:
You ate the fruit all alone.