This face so round, Hands so soft and delicate, Hair so feminine and a voice to match; I'm not sure why I make an effort to carry on. Why I haven't added to my collection of scars Or let the blood stream down my skin, It serves more purpose on bare flesh than within. The boxer inside has hit the floor, Knocked out cold Not able to stir or fight forward. This is the face of misery In an ongoing losing battle. The days progress, The storm grows stronger, The soldier inside continues to fall. They never should have saved him From the waters that almost took him down as a child. Nor from the speeding cars and passersby. They never should have made him ill the day Johnny brought a gun to school Or told him to stay away from that ledge Or that bottle of pills. Just another cog in the machine, A walking disaster. This looks like the end of me, Beautiful friend. Goodbye.
