He likes the idea of art,
maybe even dabbles in some guitar.
Even has a voice of gold,
at least that's what she told.
Just another treasure
these ears never got to behold.
He likes them petite and tiny,
carbon copy of the things never
to be found behind the eyes
he couldn't find shiny.
So why so nevers playing with a roach?
Was that all some kind of show?
But he wasn't listed off by the drama coach,
too soft for a tough edge.
Why show art your hands make
when you could just sit it in your lap,
having the best of a laugh
while sitting on a ledge,
chains choke and a useless
heart broke?

He likes to contemplate,
sitting in a computer chair.
His eyes are focused when he stares,
nothing in particular there.
He filled life with wonder just by the way he cared,
always a part of me even if
he can't feel anything.
He was the best and I was his kryptonite,
but I was always there every single night.
We spent months doing what kid's like us do,
I was his special little b o o.
I know there is nothing but dead embers,
but I hope he remembers
the good and the bad,
and the way he never made me feel fat.
Walking down this road alone,
I hope he understands that I
will laugh whenever I hear a toad.