Young, was this boy,
When his father told him,
"Don't trust another, son;
All people lie, yes, it's grim,
But no one deserves more,
Than you do, you see?
Always put yourself first and foremost,
And stronger, you'll be."
He believed every word,
Stored each in his head;
To him, these were words,
To be believed and not said.
His father taught him,
How to be a true man.
He needed big muscles,
Strong words, and a tan.
He taught him his 'truth,'
For him to hold in his heart,
"What does not **** you, my son,
Makes you stronger, so start,
To take every tough time,
In stride, don't let up;
It is not right to shed tears;
As a man conceals all thoughts,
Of emotion and caring,
Beyond loving yourself;
You can pretend to love one girl,
But keep the truth on the shelf;
Make her work to earn you,
A man like you is a rare find.
Good looking, and tough;
Never tie loves loose bind."
As he grew up,
He'd start fights,
With men,
He claimed did him wrong.
"I have honor!" He'd scream,
This was his self-song;
An anthem, of sorts,
Which carried away,
All the thoughts that he was wasting,
Life, day after day;
Hiding all of his doubts,
Under a mask of pure mad;
Concealing insecurities,
With the punch he did have.
He dropped-out of school,
After his father fell ill;
The next day he died,
From one to many a pill,
Of what he called 'manly;'
Drugs on the run.
He wanted it over,
So he could live and die young.
His son was left lonely,
No family, no friends;
No real ones, at least.
They were just with him,
To enjoy a life short and simple,
One in which they die young,
So they need not endure,
Aching backs, and bad lungs.
It wasn't long before he was alone on the street;
His friends had deserted,
Either died, or hit limits in peaks,
Of drug overdoses,
It had come a surprise.
The cast-iron man,
Stopped when tears reached his eyes.
For two years, he spent,
Alone on the street;
Becoming weaker and weaker,
And his ignored need to eat,
In favor of drugs,
Such as crack,
Crystal ****;
He was becoming beyond words,
An image of death.
One day, he lay alone,
And he cried.
He hated himself for this lie,
He did hide,
Under what was left of his muscle,
His strength, and his words;
Hallucinations plagued him,
Of men with large swords;
Battling each-other,
To retain their true man,
Showing their muscles,
And boasting their tans,
As if mocking the poor,
Lonely, cast-iron man,
Many years ago,
His spirit had ran.
No, more accurately,
His spirit had died;
It had been stabbed far to much,
By those who had lied.
That night he had reached,
The end of the fast lane;
His body died, drenched,
In the cold winter rain,
As he followed his spirit,
To an opposite plain.
Nothing's wrong with this Earth,
It is man who's insane.
- From The Friendly Inferno of the Everyday Only
