I write poems for a broken boy
On a rainy Tuesday night —
Hung breathless by the chaos
I move my rhymes slowly
Without a whimper
Without a cut
My rhythm quiet,
Quiet enough to escape his world
Damage, just enough to cut
Often deep enough to wound
I write poems for a broken boy
On a cold spring afternoon,
Grazed by the breeze
Kissed by winter nightmares
I write tirelessly — without a stop
Pain, enough to spurt words
Often deep enough to wound
I write poems for a broken boy
On most days,
Until my ink dries
And the only shadows left at my window
Are my own