rise above to high skies, fly away until the sun arise
seek the help he needs in the little time left that he bleeds through an incision on the forearm self-inflicted in bed.
"It's not a mistake..." he thought, even if it hurt a lot to get over the feelings bottled up.
And the bottle broke from the pressure, releasing a noxious treasure of blood and smoke without measure.
And it kept spilling the contents inside the boy, drowning out all joy and forcing him to employ the tactic of being a false decoy.
And he was the best he could be, loved by the many, understood by none, being together only with a bullet loaded in a gun.
Thoughts and prayers fly high for who they thought he was, but none knew at all.