This boy that I know;
He sits here and cries,
And smiles at the goodbyes
Of the people who leave.
But he dreams of another,
A life he has not;
One where he forgot,
What's it like to hurt.
He dreams of a life,
In which he is alive,
And actually tries to strive,
And not live in solitude.
He sits and slashes his wrists,
So that the other life may stay.
He must halter one away,
So that he can be sane.
As the blood drips,
He thinks in Silenus sobs.
Through the bloody globs,
And dreams of wrists that heal.
He wishes for redemption;
A savior from his pain,
To not wish to be slain.
And for the hurt to be solved.
He wishes for that person,
Who makes him want to survive.
Let's him truly thrive;
And not just pack and leave.
He dreams of this person,
And a life they could hold.
If his life didn't always fold,
And the people always leave.
But he is alone,
Oh so alone.
And his eyes dry as a bone,
The tears left long ago.
And although he dreams,
And sits and hopes,
Pain and hurt elope
To give him all new suffering.
So he sits and suffers,
And paints his skin red.
He battles his own head.
As he sits here and cries.
YOU ARE READING
Words of a Mad Man
PoetryWe are mad. Some of us more than others, and some of us are less. But we are all mad.
