There was this boy...
There was this boy that sat on a beach alone on the fourth of July. His parents off in the distance, cradling fire with their bodies. The sun was just beginning to drown in the Pacific Ocean. The sky was red and reflecting in this boy’s eyes. He sits and stares into the distant islands of another continent. His pants are wet and chafing against his hairless legs. His thoughts turn to his years alone, more alone than he was on the beach. An emotional-Van Gogh alone. His eyes are torn to his helpless parents, burning in the fires of their negligence. He ponders childlike thoughts about his brothers and the stairs in his old home. How they called for his bones, how in is complete and cloudy childhood depression answered that call without hesitance. How he would fall down all twenty-eight steps and how his six year-old baby blonde hair would viciously ram the door at the bottom like wild animals fighting over the female species. How on this beach with his size twenty-two white corduroy jeans soaked with salt and water he remembers what childhood intimacy felt like. His eyes became the sea, overcome with life. His body ached to be near to his birth, with all the warm fluids and arms, excitement and the necessity of life. How he knows that everything will soon turn to an even more harsh shit. An unspeakable death of a child, in his own worthless existence as a six year-old boy, with no more of a companion than a speechless beach, and an apparently angry sky. How he wishes and hopes to one day be older and able to run from what he knows as truth. That all life becomes death and all happiness will end.