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He wasnt your normal blue eyes Blond haired boy. He wasnt the type That girls normally chased after. His two inch hair, Often times stuck up In all different directions Due to him not wanting to brush it In attempt to see If it would afro out. Sometimes he would walk by A big smile stretched across his face His pale blue eyes Twinkling of happiness And he would pat his hair Telling me That he “still hadnt brushed it yet†The look of such proudness Never failed To bring a smile To my face. During work He would make Giant wads of rubber gloves And draw faces on them Just so he could show me. Telling me How he was going to take it home And save it forever Tell he had grandchildren To pass it down to, Only so that I can bend down And laugh Tell tears streamed down the sides of my face. Sometimes, Our boss Would find us in the back And he would be telling me How he was going to be A famous movie producer And make movies that are so great That “Even Steven Stillberge Will be kissing his Butt†Sometimes, He would see me in the lunch room Sitting by my self And he would come over And talk to me Telling me about his latest comic book Adventure, And how he plans to spend what he has left On the latest issue coming out And how ever so often His loving grandma Would bring him stacks and stacks of comics Just for him That she had hunted down at some yard sale, And he would tell me Of how He would read Every single one of them over Even though he already owned most of the issues Just so That when his grandma asked If he enjoyed the comics she got him He could say yes. Sometimes, We would sit in the lunch room And he would tell me Of how He would get so mad at himself For messing up over some things That he would have to pour salt Over his arm And hold an ice cube over it Tell it melted completely To burn away the pain. He would tell me Of the times The horrible voice in his head Would taunt him over and over All day long Tell he gave in Doing whatever it told him to do, Showing me the scars on his hand From the knife That he was forced to cut himself with, In attempt To quiet the voice. Some times He wouldn’t show up to work At all. And my boss would call his house Over and over Only to get the answering machine. Sometimes I wonder If maybe I had tried harder To be there for him He would still be here To tell me his crazy movie ideas And show me his new faces on his Rubber gloves. To make me laugh Over his new jokes And make me cry Over his sad stories of pain. I wonder If he would be here in front of me Telling me To smile more often And not let so much weight me down. To show me his crazy hair, And horrible comic drawings I wonder, If I will always miss him this much, And wish, That I could see him Just once, To tell him How I really felt about him. Sometimes I wonder, If he really loved me too? And sometimes, I wonder, If he knew, That I would hate him this much For leaving the world, And leaving me. |
No, there was nothing you could have done. From the sound of it, you were one of few bright spots in this kid's life. The problem wasn't with you. I tell you from knowing, the problem is never you. Even if one convinces themselves it was you (anyone else besides them), they are laying to themselves. You (specifically or in general) cannot cause anyone to do anything. Over all a good write. I know this kid, cause I am (was) that kid, subtract the whole killing myself part. I never had the courage or the selfishness to go through with it, only to think about it. | Posted on 2008-11-07 00:00:00 | by nicodemous | [ Reply to This ] | |