The Boy Who Played With Dolls

There once was a boy who played with dolls, his mother didn't mind but his father hated it all.

With every passing day, his father would become mad, and when mother saw the blood she would scold him for being bad.

White, hot, and burning.

Belts, whips, and ties.

Father would always hurt him, and he didn't understand why.

Mother would try to stop him, but all she could do was cry.

If she tried to save them, they would both surely die.

The little boy grew and grew, and by the time he was just fourteen, he began to spew.

Food left his mouth like as soon as it went in.

And father hated him, even then.

Father had left them both a year before, and mother was so broken all she could do was sit by the door.

Day by day she would sit and wait, all for the man who loved to hate.

The boy knew that father was never coming back, so to keep his skinny figure he took to hard drugs.

Coke, Meth, and Smack.

Little by little he began too fall, blaming it all on those stupid little dolls.

Every day he was reminded of the time when he was little and nothing was fine.

He knew he was different, and he couldn't understand why.

The guys he found attractive, and the girly things that took up his time.

He wanted what the girls had,

Dresses, heels, and boys.

But mother wouldn't let him, said he was too old for toys.

One line up and a dab on the nose.

He finds a strong coiled rope.

With an expert hand and a head clouded with coke,

He put the noose around his neck and began to choke.

With a crash and one final breath he falls, mother not hearing it, even being just down the hall.

It would take until morning to find him and then, with a scream and a cry, the grim reaper appeared.

Taking up the woman's path with a sneer.

Her son had been taken, his father a lost cause.

No one new the toll it took on the Mother until they saw him stuffed with gauze.

The pastor held a sermon of sin and shame, but the boys one friend new who was to blame.

The boys selfish parents, keen on image.

Didn't let up on the boy,  not even a smidgen.

The friend new that the boy was a lost cause, but all he could do was think and pause.

If he had been there more, maybe taken a stand.

His friend would be alive, and they'd have gone to see his favorite band.

He decided to bring awareness,  and help other like his dead friend.

He started a club, and made sure it was clear.

He spoke loud and clearly, for all to hear.

"Parents shouldn't fill their children with hate,  but the boys parents did and a bigoted image determined his fate. "