My friend lives With anemia and a stomach ucler With the past of an alchoholic father and an abusive brother With emotionally abusive ex-girlfriends Who sometimes plays the butler With a crammed-full-to-the-seams schedule With a previous eating disorder and cutting With the mind of a genius With the heart of a saint With the hands of an artist With a bevy of friends, willing and eager to help With freedom and a job With with me, Wyatt, Julia, and Tom on the other end of the phone Waiting for his call for help But he is so quiet, pushed into a world of silence, dark, and miserable art He shelters himself from all, and so we hover nearby Searching for a crack in the walls of his dungeon, but all we find is a window He holds the key, but does not yet realise it So we coaxe and console and soothe, vocalising our concerns and aid Reaching towards him to pull him away, to touch his heart with the Hope that a gentle caress, a well placed sweet stroke of kindness may Free him from his torment But as of yet, we are still trying