His Note

He took the blame for what he’d done,
He said he was sorry and he didn’t know;
He didn’t want to do it all again,
He didn’t want to die today.

His note was on the foot of his bed,
No wonder he was never in with a friend.
With close pain and closed doors,
No wonder he was never in here alone.

He wanted luck, he prayed to ears,
He closed his mouth and shed seven tears,
He didn’t get the meaning of wrong,
He once thought he would die alone.

Spread on the floor were purple shreds
Of what once was a rose, full-fledged,
Inside a book, inside a box,
He never wanted anyone to see his hopes.

The bigger hand points five o’clock,
He never made it past the door;
He painted red his wall and floor,
He hid white specks in his upper drawer.

The clouds were grey, the sky was gold,
The sun was gleaming off their mourn.
A cold September he was gone,
They never got to find what was inside his drawer.

A cold breeze came, they shut the door,
The room was closed and banned from folks,
The book inside just held a note:
“Please tell my mom this is not her fault.”

The days were endless, nightmares came,
The bed was empty, so was his shelf,
The pool was dry, the rose was gone,
Sometimes all you need is to tell someone they’re loved.