He joined another list
of wannabees.

Now shifting his
focus on the path that lay ahead,
he got up from the twisted sheets
that covered his solo-bed,
walked mummy-like
to his cracked porcelain-sink,
faucet dripping.

He'd seen it before,
he'd seen it in the thousand yard stare
looking back at him, wryly-grinning
in the early morning gray-glow,
heart-stopping.

And he whispered,
lip-synched these words
between another cycle of dry tears,
"Ain't nothing new boy,
I know all about pain."