A young teenager,
Red cuts,
Dripping along the hall,
Resting, back against the wall.
Wondering
If anyone really loves him,
Or if he’s doomed to wander,
The lonely streets,
Of a shining plastic city,
That shuts its doors to him.
Feeling
That there is no hope,
For someone as insignificant as him
So he draws the razor,
Again,
Across his already scarred wrists,
A long line,
On the pale skin.
Pinpricks,
Now dots,
Now drops,
Now beads,
Meshing together,
Flowing freely,
Washing the pain of living,
Away.
Today.
To die tomorrow?
To live forever?
But,
Somewhere,
He has hope,
For a new day.
But,
The hope,
He has held,
For so long,
Is flowing away,
Mixing with his life,
Blood,
Tears,
Sweat.
He cries out,
For the girl,
Locked so tight,
Hidden in his dreams,
To end this blight.
He wishes to die,
To suffer no more,
But the fading hope,
Little as it is,
Still reminds him.
So he holds on,
Knowing not,
What for.
But,
He does.
He holds on.
He perseveres.
He is unjustly rewarded.
He finds the girl of his dreams,
One who loves him,
For only him.
But,
He wonders,
Why he has it so good,
After suffering so long.
He lives his life,
The scars fade,
His memories are replaced,
Bad with good.
But,
He wonders all the while,
The same he asked before,
Why?
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