Shy’s Story

Shuddering at all that’s presented

He hides from everyone

That basement room becomes his heaven

Because he’s never dreamed of better

All he knows are the milldewed walls

And the roaches that become his friends

He’ll never know a warm meal

Or a dry place to rest his head

For fourteen years he’s been alone

But he’s held there by his aching soul

He’s so afraid of hidden pain

He can’t help but feel lucky to be alive

He’ll watch the tiny rivers

That creep across his damp home

Entertaining himself for hours

With broken toys that he’s found

He doesn’t know of anything better

So he’s content with what he has

The rags he has to cover his scarred skin

And the old towels he has as blankets

At night sometimes he’ll venture out

And see families warm and snug

He’ll wonder why he’s all alone

But then remembers he always was.

Categorized as poetic

By QuietFairWarning

Russian Roulet- My favourite game. Death- my favourite state of being. Suicide- yeah, within 24 hours of writing this probably.