Of the many things
I've come to know,
there are few that I understand
in the ways that I wish to comprehend
with my head in my heart
and my heart in my hand.
I knew a boy
who wore his heart on his sleeve.
All bloody and broken
for everyone to see.
He saw it as a cry for help,
another way to maybe break out
of the tight reins of society
that try to make us into
who we don't want to be.
But everyone else
saw it differently.
Because the world's too lost
for such openness.
Too forsaken for blind innocence.
So they took all the words
that plagued him night and day,
shoved them in his mouth
and made him feel ashamed.
When really they were just
ashamed of themselves
for feeling what we all have felt.
Insecure, self-hate
that we all show in different ways.
Some force these feelings
upon someone else,
while the rest of us take them out
on ourselves.
When they found his body
along the creek bed
it was bloody and broken.
He held his heart in his hand.
Of the many things
I've come to know,
there are few that I understand.
Like the decision to
push someone down
instead of lending a hand.