This letter is for you, a string of broken sentences unused
and unfulfilled as sick reminders of a past you thought you knew.
I've no song to sing for a future unheard
for the song is unsung when you don't know the words
and I'm just a figment of a cemented past
and an unused future that sharpens the news
in a broken existence that so dimly lasts.
With eyes to the skies and your will at the crown,
you're hailing the god that's letting you down
for the break of the break as your bones crush the floor
while you lie in your bed, praying, "What to live for?"
A bullet with your name engraved waits next to your pen
so misplace a warm gun upon the blood-stained ground:
the metal that bruises won't let you rest again.
The last boy that touches is the first to leave,
a pennant for gluing your heart to your sleeve
searching for love in each corner of a sphere
with dead eyes to enchant and sicker lust to bear.
And you bleed at each dagger and scream with each wound,
with your hands on your heart, pledging what you believe
to the boys with their backs turned at the beating heart's sound.
The silence festers inside with each passing year
while each smile seen is a demon disgraced by your fear.
Your skin paints itself invisible in attempts to survive
as a beggar and martyr with smoldering eyes;
yet you lay in a grave, still alive with the hope
that the joy will submerge and the choke will be near
to extinguish the neck held up by the rope.