Horrid

I wish I knew the doorman,
always standing in the sand.

Distant and forgotten,
a heavy, horrid man.

Punctual and quite perfect,
lost amongst the band.

Playing pleasing symphonies,
yet caught without his hands.

Lost and not quite distant,
his frustration deepens mad.

To a point of insecurities,
he awakes aside the sand,
this poor, horrid man --- stands.

Sad...Sad...symphonies,
lost amongst the sand,
the sea swells west,
and the tiny chest rests.

For another day the doorman stands,
within the forgotten tears,
the many many years,
this great band,
horrid man,
will continue to stand.
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*Definitely a Horrid poem right?

*I'm thinking of deleting it soon...