He was a quiet boy
obsessed with death.
Some said he was depressed.

And his smile.
his smile was worthwhile;
his smile was.

But the boy was not right.
His demons dressed in their Sunday's best
to keep from being caught.

He knew all the nice things people would say
at his funeral.
That he was smart,
inventive,
affectionate.

This poem is for that boy.
The boy that never got to hear all the wonderful things
people had to say
because he is dead.