The Love of His Punching Bag

Beating the listlessness from his soul,
the heavy bag swings back and forth.
Blood spewed across it's broken hide;
the seams tearing with each mighty blow.

No protective wrap ever necessary,
he does not fight with prepared fists.
So the blood flows down the knuckles,
the sound of droplets hitting the ground.

No rage can be found in this contest;
only solace taken in this self invoked act.
Memories of the past break the heart,
while scarred fists strike blow after blow.

No, this contestant will never speak a word;
nor will it ever tire or turn tale.
The only unfaltering  friend ever had.
Most likely the only he will ever know. 

Tears do not fall in spite of feelings pent up.
Eyes begging for love, only to bring anger.
Oh! What has become of this man?
His bag and him, fighting to no real end.

His only outlet for the emotional pain,
the physical strain against this battered ally.
Thus he welcomes it with closed fists
and a heart of cold, forlorn disdain.

Only when he has beaten every emotion out,
and discharged all feelings of rage,
does he give his beaten friend a moment.
This moment in reality for the aggressor.

Thus, the bag hangs in desolate darkness,
in wait of the next session of sentimental brutality.
His wounds healed as temporarily as his heart.
His punching bag falling apart on the outside,
just as he is falling apart on the inside.
The crushing shadows consuming them both.

.