Poem: Red Chasim

[mara_s_spacelog]

He sat in his arm chair,
overlooking the bay.
Oddly not moved,
by the beautiful day.

The crimson blood pooled,
in the palms of his hands.
And dripped from his finger tips,
into the sand.

Starring blankly at the chasms
He had carved in his wrists,
he finally flinched,
as he made a tight fist.

As the blood slowly ebbed
he began to cry,
as he thought of the reasons
he had chosen to die.

The lack of friends,
and the verbal abuse.
The lies, the neglect,
the hopeless search for truth.

The harassment by peers;
the mistreatment by teachers;
they got to “play ball”,
while he sat in the bleachers.

To live in that world
to him was no life,
so he chose to end it,
by wilding a knife.

His head sagged forward.
He breathed his last breath.
Instead of living in pain,
He would gladly choose death.