My boy.
My tiny broken boy,
today I saw you crying.
The water still remains pale blue
and you are sick of dying.
You pour your silver on the skin.
The skin you used to feel
when flying.
You aggravate the new-born sin.
Your greatest sin
of being young and dying.
You desperately try to draw
the borders of your lying
on the skin.
The skin you used to touch
when trying.
My boy,
my sweet pathetic boy.
You’re sick and tired of crying.
The blind maze strangles you inside,
for you to keep denying.
Today the water turned dark blue,
but you’re still sick of dying.
You do your fine art
on the skin.
The skin you used to fear
when crying.
My boy.
My funny dying boy.
You end up crucifying
the naked shallow dreams.
You’re sick.
My boy is sick of trying.
You leave sweet bruises
on the skin.
The skin you used to taste
when dying.