His Voice

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Dark and cold,

      A tale so old, 

Coming home,

    Waiting to unfold. 

 

He sits on his bed,

     Painting his wrists red,

Urging the thoughts,

    To just leave his head. 

 

Why are you crying, 

    His mother would ask,

Oh, mom, it's nothing

    He put on that mask.

 

The next day at school,

    It had been rough,

He decided at home,

    that he'd had enough. 

   

He went for the knife,

     Because,

'What is life'

    He was going to die tonight.

 

But in a split second descision,

     He questioned this choice

He had remembered,

    That he had a voice.

 

He went to his mother,

     Tears in his eyes,

Begging for help,

    Though he hates when she cries.

 

She nodded, so caring,

    'Thank you for sharing'

They got in the car,

   Damn, was he daring. 

 

They got him some help,

   And, boy, do I pray,

That this strong young man,

    Is okay today.

    

 

                                        ~ Ruthie B. Starkey

 

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