The Life of Crucibles in the Night
There once lived a boy
That grew up quickly
As a result of many deaths
This boy found solace
In his pen and his pad
But one day
His pen ceased working
And his pad refused to listen
Whatever was to become of him
His arm would not shed blood
The wound may have gaped
And the flesh have told stories
But not a drop flowed anymore
There was none to talk to
And his pen wouldn't listen
He couldn't accept the fact
That his friends had gone
Someplace he could not find
He whiled in a corner
Crying tears to the sky
Knowing that his pen wouldn't listen anymore
And couldn't understand
His candle wouldn't light
And he was afraid of the dark
He felt as if
There was no hope left
And he couldn't understand
He remembers his nights of solace
Knowing that suicide is a gift to himself
And the last thought
Running through his head
Before closing his eyes
Was the memory
Of his mother's voice preaching
That he would one day
Be a criminal