He dispised having to find and X and Y during maths period but when I'd be English period you'd see from his inability to sit still and the way he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
During that period I'd listen in awe as he recited a poem by Shakespeare, his voice hit home and made my heart rage in the cage locked in.
On Saturday evenings he preferred performing his poetry in a room full with people and each time his combat boots hit the stage, silence would fall over the small cafe, he had that kind of energy, his presence would light up the whole room and his first statement would shock the room.
"I AM DROWNING IN MY FATHER'S DEMONS!"
When he turned eight, he walked in the basement one day to find his father hanging in the middle of the room, a noose around his neck. What keeps him up most nights is the suicide note that he did not leave. Every Friday we chill in the same basement, smoking pot till my head feels faint and my heart throbs.
Ever so often I find him staring up at the place he found him, and in those moments I tell a quick joke to bring him back to reality.
He smiles more than he should and behind his smile is a lifetime of buried pain but he has a presence that can never be ignored, he is a mixture of the sun and the moon, he glows even in the darkness.
I live to keep his heart beating for he is eternal.
YOU ARE READING
From The Attic (poetry)
PoetryFrom the attic is a book with thoughts and qoutes and countless poems I've stringed together with the scattered words in my mind. any
