Maybe he didn't see the wall.
Maybe the darkness forbid sight.
Maybe the fog of Depression
settled over his eyes, blinding,
obstructing his perspective.

He was beating the living Hell
out of his Demons, himself,
because the crunching of fingers
was less painful than hearing the
Voices that consumed his mind.

Although I lay miles away,
face down, pillow soaked, wide awake,
I heard the Screams, his desperate Pleas,
and it was Torture, knowing that
I could do nothing to help.

His bloodied, bruised, beaten Knuckles
create speculation, questions,
And when people inquire why,
He grimaces and proudly says,
"You should see the other guy."