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Look at him... Poor thing. Twisted and lonely, all on his own, so quiet and peaceful, does he ever moan? Sits and stares, out into space, no way to read him, no expression on his face, because he's thinking all the time, he hardly ever stops, if ever at all, all of the while, just sitting and staring, because he's lonely and peaceful, he won't talk to others because he doesn't want to, and they won't talk to him because they're scared. They're scared that he doesn't speak, they're scared of his glare, so they'll leave him alone, after all, it's only fair.
Does anyone talk to him? Does anyone care? Let's go play football, we'll all have fun there, except him, of course, he never wants to play... how do we know? Good question, I don't think we've ever tried to say...
So they'll walk to him, and they'll ask him to play, boys encouraged by their girlfriends because they don't want to seem 'heartless'. "You wanna play football with us, it'll be nice if you played." they'll lie to him... "No thanks, I'm fine here." he'll lie back.
And he'll smile, and curl up again, and stare at the wall, because it speaks to him, it clears his head, because he has no friends lend a hand. Why share his pain? How could anyone POSSIBLY understand?
"Why do you stare at the wall all the time?" A girl would ask, a new breath of life into her, encouraged by her friends to do something exciting. Talk to the boy, that'll be funny. Find out what he's thinking, we're all interested, honest.
"It helps me to think." came back the answer, short and sweet and told all he ever needed to say. He wish they'd just leave him and go away, but for now, the teasing would continue. Teasing? They're not interested. They're talking for a laugh, they're bored, they're young, they don't need to know he goes home at night and can't sleep because he sees things. They don't need to know he can't get the visions out of his head even when he closes his eyes, they don't need to know he'll be dead soon, and he's dying inside, mentally slowly dragging behind the physical decay that rots away inside of him. Dead soon. Ah well.
"What do you think about?" The girl asks, pretending to be sincere, while her friends giggle behind her.
"Anything." The boy replies, all lies? Not quite... for he does, whatever he can, just to try and take the images away, the ones that haunt him throughout the day, they've drove him down, he's lost his crown, the way he used to hold his head high and be so friendly, because he was a boy too, once, but no longer. Now he prays that he'll be able to sleep like the child he once was.
"Oh. Like what?" The girl asked, and the boy feels perhaps she is interested after all, deep down. Perhaps she feels sorry, charmed perhaps that the boy is so hidden, so uneasy with his emotions.
"Anything." The boy repeats, never taking his eyes from the wall, because they can't live on walls, they can't. They can only sleep on the floor, the corners, the hallways, the ceilings. Never the walls. That doesn't make sense. It'll never make sense. And he tells it to himself every day, in the fear that one day, they will sleep on the walls. And then he won't be able to stare... anywhere.
"Err... ok." The girl says, and gives up, like he nearly did, so many times, bitterly twisting between the lines, only small escapes and wonders that carry him forward. The small prayer that he can forget for a moment, the dogs of war, the ones that speak to him, just like before, and they'll pack their bags, and wave goodbye, and the boy will smile, with a beautiful sigh, because he'll miss them, odd as it sounds, because deep down he's not really that poor, he's the luckiest bast**d around.
Does anyone talk to him? Does anyone care? Let's go play football, we'll all have fun there, except him, of course, he never wants to play... how do we know? Good question, I don't think we've ever tried to say...
So they'll walk to him, and they'll ask him to play, boys encouraged by their girlfriends because they don't want to seem 'heartless'. "You wanna play football with us, it'll be nice if you played." they'll lie to him... "No thanks, I'm fine here." he'll lie back.
And he'll smile, and curl up again, and stare at the wall, because it speaks to him, it clears his head, because he has no friends lend a hand. Why share his pain? How could anyone POSSIBLY understand?
"Why do you stare at the wall all the time?" A girl would ask, a new breath of life into her, encouraged by her friends to do something exciting. Talk to the boy, that'll be funny. Find out what he's thinking, we're all interested, honest.
"It helps me to think." came back the answer, short and sweet and told all he ever needed to say. He wish they'd just leave him and go away, but for now, the teasing would continue. Teasing? They're not interested. They're talking for a laugh, they're bored, they're young, they don't need to know he goes home at night and can't sleep because he sees things. They don't need to know he can't get the visions out of his head even when he closes his eyes, they don't need to know he'll be dead soon, and he's dying inside, mentally slowly dragging behind the physical decay that rots away inside of him. Dead soon. Ah well.
"What do you think about?" The girl asks, pretending to be sincere, while her friends giggle behind her.
"Anything." The boy replies, all lies? Not quite... for he does, whatever he can, just to try and take the images away, the ones that haunt him throughout the day, they've drove him down, he's lost his crown, the way he used to hold his head high and be so friendly, because he was a boy too, once, but no longer. Now he prays that he'll be able to sleep like the child he once was.
"Oh. Like what?" The girl asked, and the boy feels perhaps she is interested after all, deep down. Perhaps she feels sorry, charmed perhaps that the boy is so hidden, so uneasy with his emotions.
"Anything." The boy repeats, never taking his eyes from the wall, because they can't live on walls, they can't. They can only sleep on the floor, the corners, the hallways, the ceilings. Never the walls. That doesn't make sense. It'll never make sense. And he tells it to himself every day, in the fear that one day, they will sleep on the walls. And then he won't be able to stare... anywhere.
"Err... ok." The girl says, and gives up, like he nearly did, so many times, bitterly twisting between the lines, only small escapes and wonders that carry him forward. The small prayer that he can forget for a moment, the dogs of war, the ones that speak to him, just like before, and they'll pack their bags, and wave goodbye, and the boy will smile, with a beautiful sigh, because he'll miss them, odd as it sounds, because deep down he's not really that poor, he's the luckiest bast**d around.
Grix Thraves wrote:
>
> The boy's me, if you didn't realise. It's a true story.
---
I guessed
I used to be like that, still am a bit.
>
> The boy's me, if you didn't realise. It's a true story.
---
I guessed
I used to be like that, still am a bit.
Agree with Sheepy, this is the best thing you've written and considering the quality of all of your pieces, that is no mean feat.
Nah, that was the whole point. It was important the boy never spoke... for it was best he was left without company.
That's the thing, you see. It's easy to look on that boy as 'poor', because he has no friends, and is obviously having pyschological problems. But in my eyes, he's lucky. He was forced to stand on his own two feet, and had no-one to turn to, so he was forced to look after himself.
The boy's me, if you didn't realise. It's a true story.
That's the thing, you see. It's easy to look on that boy as 'poor', because he has no friends, and is obviously having pyschological problems. But in my eyes, he's lucky. He was forced to stand on his own two feet, and had no-one to turn to, so he was forced to look after himself.
The boy's me, if you didn't realise. It's a true story.
Boo...I wanted the boy to say more to the girl. {:)
Very good Grix, made me feel very involved as I tried to imagine the scene.
Very good Grix, made me feel very involved as I tried to imagine the scene.
Thanks... stuff is getting so easy to write... it comes out and rhymes in my head without me even needing to think, it's just so natural to do topics like this now.
Best thing I've read by you... and they're all fantastic.
Very deep, if a bit psychologicaly unstable...
Sounds like me, though I don't stare at the wall.
Sounds like me, though I don't stare at the wall.
Look at him... Poor thing. Twisted and lonely, all on his own, so quiet and peaceful, does he ever moan? Sits and stares, out into space, no way to read him, no expression on his face, because he's thinking all the time, he hardly ever stops, if ever at all, all of the while, just sitting and staring, because he's lonely and peaceful, he won't talk to others because he doesn't want to, and they won't talk to him because they're scared. They're scared that he doesn't speak, they're scared of his glare, so they'll leave him alone, after all, it's only fair.
Does anyone talk to him? Does anyone care? Let's go play football, we'll all have fun there, except him, of course, he never wants to play... how do we know? Good question, I don't think we've ever tried to say...
So they'll walk to him, and they'll ask him to play, boys encouraged by their girlfriends because they don't want to seem 'heartless'. "You wanna play football with us, it'll be nice if you played." they'll lie to him... "No thanks, I'm fine here." he'll lie back.
And he'll smile, and curl up again, and stare at the wall, because it speaks to him, it clears his head, because he has no friends lend a hand. Why share his pain? How could anyone POSSIBLY understand?
"Why do you stare at the wall all the time?" A girl would ask, a new breath of life into her, encouraged by her friends to do something exciting. Talk to the boy, that'll be funny. Find out what he's thinking, we're all interested, honest.
"It helps me to think." came back the answer, short and sweet and told all he ever needed to say. He wish they'd just leave him and go away, but for now, the teasing would continue. Teasing? They're not interested. They're talking for a laugh, they're bored, they're young, they don't need to know he goes home at night and can't sleep because he sees things. They don't need to know he can't get the visions out of his head even when he closes his eyes, they don't need to know he'll be dead soon, and he's dying inside, mentally slowly dragging behind the physical decay that rots away inside of him. Dead soon. Ah well.
"What do you think about?" The girl asks, pretending to be sincere, while her friends giggle behind her.
"Anything." The boy replies, all lies? Not quite... for he does, whatever he can, just to try and take the images away, the ones that haunt him throughout the day, they've drove him down, he's lost his crown, the way he used to hold his head high and be so friendly, because he was a boy too, once, but no longer. Now he prays that he'll be able to sleep like the child he once was.
"Oh. Like what?" The girl asked, and the boy feels perhaps she is interested after all, deep down. Perhaps she feels sorry, charmed perhaps that the boy is so hidden, so uneasy with his emotions.
"Anything." The boy repeats, never taking his eyes from the wall, because they can't live on walls, they can't. They can only sleep on the floor, the corners, the hallways, the ceilings. Never the walls. That doesn't make sense. It'll never make sense. And he tells it to himself every day, in the fear that one day, they will sleep on the walls. And then he won't be able to stare... anywhere.
"Err... ok." The girl says, and gives up, like he nearly did, so many times, bitterly twisting between the lines, only small escapes and wonders that carry him forward. The small prayer that he can forget for a moment, the dogs of war, the ones that speak to him, just like before, and they'll pack their bags, and wave goodbye, and the boy will smile, with a beautiful sigh, because he'll miss them, odd as it sounds, because deep down he's not really that poor, he's the luckiest bast**d around.
Does anyone talk to him? Does anyone care? Let's go play football, we'll all have fun there, except him, of course, he never wants to play... how do we know? Good question, I don't think we've ever tried to say...
So they'll walk to him, and they'll ask him to play, boys encouraged by their girlfriends because they don't want to seem 'heartless'. "You wanna play football with us, it'll be nice if you played." they'll lie to him... "No thanks, I'm fine here." he'll lie back.
And he'll smile, and curl up again, and stare at the wall, because it speaks to him, it clears his head, because he has no friends lend a hand. Why share his pain? How could anyone POSSIBLY understand?
"Why do you stare at the wall all the time?" A girl would ask, a new breath of life into her, encouraged by her friends to do something exciting. Talk to the boy, that'll be funny. Find out what he's thinking, we're all interested, honest.
"It helps me to think." came back the answer, short and sweet and told all he ever needed to say. He wish they'd just leave him and go away, but for now, the teasing would continue. Teasing? They're not interested. They're talking for a laugh, they're bored, they're young, they don't need to know he goes home at night and can't sleep because he sees things. They don't need to know he can't get the visions out of his head even when he closes his eyes, they don't need to know he'll be dead soon, and he's dying inside, mentally slowly dragging behind the physical decay that rots away inside of him. Dead soon. Ah well.
"What do you think about?" The girl asks, pretending to be sincere, while her friends giggle behind her.
"Anything." The boy replies, all lies? Not quite... for he does, whatever he can, just to try and take the images away, the ones that haunt him throughout the day, they've drove him down, he's lost his crown, the way he used to hold his head high and be so friendly, because he was a boy too, once, but no longer. Now he prays that he'll be able to sleep like the child he once was.
"Oh. Like what?" The girl asked, and the boy feels perhaps she is interested after all, deep down. Perhaps she feels sorry, charmed perhaps that the boy is so hidden, so uneasy with his emotions.
"Anything." The boy repeats, never taking his eyes from the wall, because they can't live on walls, they can't. They can only sleep on the floor, the corners, the hallways, the ceilings. Never the walls. That doesn't make sense. It'll never make sense. And he tells it to himself every day, in the fear that one day, they will sleep on the walls. And then he won't be able to stare... anywhere.
"Err... ok." The girl says, and gives up, like he nearly did, so many times, bitterly twisting between the lines, only small escapes and wonders that carry him forward. The small prayer that he can forget for a moment, the dogs of war, the ones that speak to him, just like before, and they'll pack their bags, and wave goodbye, and the boy will smile, with a beautiful sigh, because he'll miss them, odd as it sounds, because deep down he's not really that poor, he's the luckiest bast**d around.