His emotions were like the ocean, so vast and deep, and full of words unspoken.

He confessed to me all his sins and converted to an emotional, selfish machine: so violent, yet completely fulfilled of utter purpose.

I listened to him and his story, then instantly hated myself because I couldn't cure the brokenness or unleash the glory his soul once possessed.

His voice was so full of anger and sadness, distinct with the fear that he would not be able to survive this raging storm on his own.

I told him that I loved him and took him away from the place he once called a home.

He was always impatiently searching for a place he had never known, hoping that someday he wouldn't have to constantly live in the unknown.

His lips soon spoke the four words I never quite wished his voice would ever intone, while also pleading and begging me to not leave him on his own.

He sat down and told me his problems and I listened to the voice of someone I thought I knew.

After the pleading and gasping of breath, he told me he had no ounce of energy left.

Soon fate circumvented much to his relief and a sharp blade gently kissed the skin under his sleeve, but death wasn't ready to take him under his wing.

He was sent back to a place where the pain would subside to a sting.

He was practically forced to jump back on his feet and stop bargaining for less time with his grief.

I'm sorry and I promise that I will try to help you find some peace, but if you go down, I go with you.

How's that for release?