His eyes stare at me, dull.
His smile is gone, no longer there.
His stomach is empty, not full.
His attitude sends a chill through the air.

He speaks to no one, he stays quiet.
Everything he sees produces a chafe.
His fists are always clenched, ready to fight.
He hides where it's safe, except it's not safe.

He slices his skin open.
He believes he's broken.
He hates his life,
So he tries to end it with a knife.

In the hospital he lays,
He's in a coma.
He won't wake up for days,
Maybe never due to severe lymphoma.