Suicide Boy

There once lived a boy
Whom I knew quite well,
But he didn’t know himself.
He didn’t see that he was worth it,
And he didn’t get that he was great.
He felt that life was a losing game,
And he was always coming in last.
He felt that he was the B-side song
To last weeks top pop single.
He felt that he couldn’t keep his head up,
And the water was rising to his nose.
He felt that he was the ash on the cigarette;
The unwanted crust on wheat bread.
He floated through life unnoticed.
He was the type of boy who just scrapes by.
He was a waste of eyesight,
At least, that’s what he told me.
His life was the scratch in the record,
And the needle was too dull to play anymore.
His wrists one more bad day away from the knife.
His diary read like an autopsy report,
The crime scene was his heart.
But he was such a brilliant writer, to be sure,
And he proved it in his last letter to this world.