On that day many things were said,
Many things that may have never made her left.
On that day they mourned his death,
But he was made fun of the day he drew his last breath.
On that day she was the center of attention,
But whilst alive, her name wasn't even mentioned.
On that day he was loved,
But on other days he wasn't even hugged.
On that day they saw her drawings,
And saw the artistic talent they have always missed
In order to find the flaws with which they hurt her
And never took the time to see the great and praise her.
On that day they listened to his songs,
On that MacBook he had for so long.
Heard the voice of a cherub they had ignored,
For so long that now and now he can never play another chord.
She will never pick up that pencil again,
He will never sing or strum that guitar.
The sketchbook will never be finished,
And the dust rise on that new package of strings on his desk.
On that day it was too late.
Too late to take back the words they had said full of hate.
She took her life with her father's gun,
He took his life in the tub before the rising of the sun.
She just couldn't take it anymore: all the depression and the hate.
He just wanted to be loved but perhaps this is just his fate.
While they picked at her for her last year's clothes,
While they picked at him for his oversized nose,
While they picked at her for her being too fat,
While they picked at him for being too skinny
They never knew how much it hurt,
And they'll never know.
