Constructive criticism on my poem?

I wrote it for English class. I'm only in ninth grade, so don't expect anything spectacular. BQ: Can you figure out what it's about? I'll mention that he's schizophrenic. He Walks: He walks upon the road Empty as it is; A soulless place In the withering midst of autumn Barren. So... show more I wrote it for English class. I'm only in ninth grade, so don't expect anything spectacular.
BQ: Can you figure out what it's about? I'll mention that he's schizophrenic.

He Walks:

He walks upon the road
Empty as it is;
A soulless place
In the withering midst of autumn
Barren.
So what is there in this foreign land?
The man ponders on the thought
His steps slow, and steadily he walks.

If he could feel, would this be cruel?
He has nothing –
No friends, no family, no air to breathe
The wind has dissipated, and the silent road remains;
Soundless, no soft murmurs of children asleep
Happily, worriless.

An endless road
Calm, yet so secretive
Possessing no beauty.
So what is he to do
But dwell on such simple matters
That still outsmart man?

The horizon is endless; a glowing sky, a radiant sun
But the scene changes
Yet he walks along the path;
A dark corridor illuminated with dim lights;
A ghastly presence lingers in the air
Sending shivers down his spine; blood drains from his face
And he breaks into a run.
Eerie voices whisper –
Or is it a figment of his imagination?
Perhaps he is delusional,
For how could something be so ludicrous?

No, there are no voices;
It was simply a fantasy he had built upon
Silently sitting in his mind,
Like a rattlesnake, watching its prey
And attacking at its frailest of moments.
Why are you following me?

Again, the road shifts
A coliseum: ancient and grand, fit for a king
Abstract paintings between pillars, fading
Crumbling and famished with age.
His body aches with pain
Yet he saunters to the walls; allured, entranced
Awed by the distractions, he gasps, admiring the beauty and simplicity
Of such archaic structures.

And what have we here
But a memory to come?
The young lad squirms, unable to move
Yet he does not have the desire to
Or does he?
He can’t seem to make up his mind
For he is captivated
By the majesty
She calls for him, her soul connects with his
She tells him to stay
And he decides:
He does not, not, not want to leave –

Her eyes darken; they are fierce beneath their delicacy,
A monster–
No, he does not, not want to leave.
Uselessly, he struggles in her grasp
She coos softly in his ear
And he is lulled back to his fantasy
The lass is elegant and kind
And he does not want to leave,
So he closes his eyes; perfect bliss.

Drones of classy music;
A piano and a violin on a recorder.
But how, he wonders, in such classical times?
He straightens himself,
His mind begins to clear –
But no, it stops
His thoughts once again become clouded, for they were never clear
And the melody glitches.

His head pounds – what impelled it to change?
Does it not realize that he is there?
Of course, it should not change for him
Just for him, the song should be soothing;
It’s his.
This world had been crafted just for him to walk upon;
He had shed tears of blood to have it made
Yet this is how it repays him?
Ungrateful, savage beings
Disobeying their master

Anger builds in his body, he snarls
Staring up at the woman who had once been so graceful in his eyes
But is now a hideous beast;
Destroy her.
He snakes his hands up around her neck,
Tightening his grasp –
She is gone.

He sighs, relieved to be free of the wretched lady
He turns and begins to walk,
But stops.
There it is;
That murderous melody
Making his ears bleed
The scene changes back to the dark corridor
Now the lifeless desert
Back to the ancient chamber, then the corridor
The desert, suddenly an ocean
The corridor.
The order reverses.
Moonlight:
Screeches, claws raking against a wall
Pivoting and fast-forwarding;
Madness.

A hoarse scream escapes his tightened throat,
The song reaches its crescendo
He falls to his knees
Clutching onto his soft locks of hair,
Yanking them out
His eyes bleed tears
His mind is flustered; chaotic.
How sadistic is the world
To do this to him
Such a wonderful man he is
What wrong had he done, to receive this punishment?
What a cruel place
With no route for escape –

A prisoner of his own
Trapped in his mind
A fantasy brought to life –
How beautiful, he thinks
Must be death, in this loveliest
He is to himself, and to nobody else
He is the master –
For he might as well have turned to dust.

Yet, the music slows
It is still rigid, and the man gasps
Grabbing a handful of sand, it changes to grass
And then to water
Now dust.
He chuckles,
A grin of dark mirth spreads across his lips
He gains strength in his legs, and the man stands
Staring up at the long road ahead of him
He walks.
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