Untitled Drafts 2

A boy is 5.

He looks for a father’s love, for a mother’s time, for a friend’s reassuarance. He finds none.

A boy is still 5.

He sees the disgust in his father’s eyes when they cross his handwriting,

The words in them.

Childish words, but words from a place of truth.

A boy is still 5.

He sees the chagrined encouragement of a mother too busy with her career.

A boy is 5.

He sees the children running and playing and wonders why he sits alone.

A boy think these things to himself.

A boy is 13.

He is angry. He is sad. He is manic.

His psyche is frayed, his mind threads that are slowly being severed on the knife of life.

A boy knows not what to do.

A boy cuts, but not cuts of the physical.

A boy bleeds his pain and emotions onto a computer screen,

In words of a hodgepodge language called English.

A boy knows no other way to keep sane.

A boy is 18 now.

A boy is a man.

A man is alive because of words.

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