The boy was silent, thinking that he blended
Into the turbulence of mangled continuity.
He stayed silent, not a soul befriended.
Diverse emotions raging, so not free
To truly understand the kindness of
Lashing laughter that became his manner
Of hiding behind self-inflicted fences.

His weary eyes belied innocence pretended.
Young in age, old in scorned indifference.
Despite the hairless body, childhood ended.
For he was well aware of how to be tense
In sterilized situations of lengthening despair.
The internal bleeding was ever flowing
In his gathered depths of wasted anger.

Voices that should have been of comfort
Were instead knives piercing his heart.
In perfection they circled him like a shirt
Of mangled wolves ever ready to start
The game of destruction of his perceptions.
Ah, they would not let the boy surmise
The potential merit of his future daze.

Such propped up limbs of uncertainty
Had become his manner of survival.
In glances of fear, his trembling trees
Shook with passions of hateful denial.
And though he hoped for love of self,
He was in truth, and in manner of life,
accustomed to resentment provided.

Small surprise that as he grew older
He buried reality in cages of disbelief.
Like a pearl, he wrapped himself colder
Visions of how he might obtain release.
The boy would age in terms of years
having learned to submit to disapproval.
Such would be the chains he adopted.