there is a big city. in the city there is a window, among other windows. it's dark. inside is a boy man, but not really a man. He feels like boy, a boy who tried to grow up too soon. that kind of growing hurts, worse than growing pains.
the dark room is lit only by a cigarette, clouded by smoke, penetrated by cold night air. the hands holding the cigarette are bruised, scarred, and trembling.
In this forgotten room he is alone, without a shirt, smoking, and hopeless, with tears inconspicuously slipping down his face. he's thinking about his mother and he keeps thinking and feeling and clenching and unclenching his jaw. his eyes are full of bitter regret, despair, and wetness. he keeps messing with his hands, biting his knuckles, fidgeting, lips trembling between gulps for air.
his neck turns to side and he stops, closing his eyes hard- till he breaks throwing down his cigarette and crushing it into the floor with his shoe
with tears in his eyes, biting his lip, trying to stop it, he sets in to the brick wall, punching it for all he's worth not that that's very much to him forgetting to wrap them. he forgot they were already bruised. he forgot they were bleeding when they started. he just kept beating the wall like it was himself.
then when he had nothing left he flung himself in the thin mattress of a bed and lay there staring at the distant stars, burning, emotionless, alone until sleep took the pain away for then
little did he know his mother lay awake too
looking up to the same stars a thousand miles away
thinking what she would not give to have him back
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| inspiration via pinterest |
