p o e t r y

04

A tragic poem about a boy I loved...

Pale, weary, dreary, ghostly licking at the walls, presence and existence left hidden behind the door.

Woken in a hurried dream, shaking under cold sheets. Pulling away his character, stripped of his own person. Putting on the clothes, that are the only thing he owns.

Hollow souls that knock his shoulder, no gentle words to soothe, holding on to the last photo, his mother he never knew.

A room of hurried hurtful words, 27 empty souls seated in a clutter.

His eyes are red, his hands are charred.

His mind is somewhere distant and far.

He sits in his room with the picture in his hand.

The hurtful words the mean remarks, everything they ever said.

He sits down in the corner, willing himself to die, how much better he would be dead, dead, dead.

Writing angrily, ripping, tearing at his hair. Wanting to be remembered to be more than just a photo.

Whoosh, bang, roar the wind was hungry for his soul.

The air was thick, he would be quick to join the other side.

Holding onto this photo as he lets in one last breath.

With the tight, rough rope or sound and right.

He lets out a final cry and gives up this fight...

...

Shhh don't wake the monsters that are sleeping under your bed.

Don't let them know how you feel or the truth at 2am.

Don't say it's not over, don't say it's okay.

Drifting, slipping, falling, he became a ghost that way.

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A/N

much love