He screams,
His eyes squeezed shut
And his hands curled into fists.
He is a tough guy, anyone
Can see that,
With his spiked hair and
Long, lean muscles under black clothes.
But his macho, rough-and-tumble self
Is gone,
Torn apart as his brother lays
Bleeding in the street, without life.
He screams until his voice breaks
And copper-tasting blood bubbles
At the back of his throat.
He kicks and punches the old building next to him,
Beside himself with rage, sorrow, guilt, despair,
Until he is bruised and battered,
He wanders away to a bar
To drown his memories,
But he can't forget.
He returns to the
Lifeless body
And, unable to escape,
He finally cries.
First one tear, then another
And another,
Until a river flows from
His red, swollen eyes,
Washing away his pain.
His mother who died,
His father who drank,
His gang that beat him,
His enemies that taunt him,
His demons that goad him
Into fighting, shooting, drinking.
Sitting in the lonely, damp street,
He cries for his brother
But even more,
He cries forhimself.