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Description
He lifted the poison to his lips once more, the cold, bitter taste is the only thing that allows him to feel. His mind is twisted, his vison blurry, what is a man like he? The screen before him, the only form of light in the darkness that shrouds his worn out body.

He remembers his father, the man he barely knew. The kite danced in the air, his father by his side. "Father, why can't we fly?" He asked like any child would.

"But people do fly, we fly in planes and balloons. People have learned to fly without nature, we know how to manipulate."

The boy looked up at the kite, the wind gave it such character, as if it were alive.

The darkness slowly crept back. The poet wiped a tear from his eye.

"Mother, I don't understand, I can't spell this word."

"Together. To-get-her."

The poet took another drink, he was beginning to feel numb again, the misery was returning. He tried to shake it away, pretend like he wasn't sad, but no matter what he tried, another tear dripped from his eyes.

The line on the screen popped in and out of existance, impatient, wanting the rest of the story to unfold.

He couldn't take this any more. This suffering, this pain, he wanted it to end. Love was just a waste, he thought he could change, the darkness in his soul was always there, waiting for the chance to strike. His face grew warm, the only feeling that existed. His wrists were covered up, to protect themselves from the blade. Such misery, the destiny of a poet, to die unknowing the kindness of humanity. On his wall was a simple copy of a famous painting, the painting of a crazed man who put himself in harm's way for love. The moon looked exactly the same as the picture, the lights of the city reflected that of the painter's sights.

Poison spilled from his lips, unable to keep it inside anymore. He coughed and forced more down his throat.

"She was my friend, I loved her, I lost her to the beast that I am." He thought. His hand scratched his chin. Stubble scratched back. What a broken man. "How? How could I fail? Can't I have anything?"

The poet's fingers tapped his keyboard, he reached for the poison again. This was to be his masterpiece. His head turned and he vomited. His head stung from the night before. He cried himself to sleep the previous night, and the night before. This pain was unlike any he knew before. He had been alone all his life, yet this lonliness was the worst. Not a man, yet not a boy, he wanted someone to accept him. He thought he had found the one, but she left him to fight his monster alone.

"How could I blame her? Nobody wants a beast such as I." The words tumbled around in his head.

Upstairs a voice called. "You're home, I know you are."

The poet began to weep, his eyes burned as he tried to release the tears. The bottle was raised yet again to his lips. Thoughts of suicide ran rampant through his head.

"These bottles... No. No. You aren't doing this to yourself. I can help you! Just let me." The voice became louder as it realised what it was tripping over.

He dropped the bottle and reached into his desk.

"Damn it, You're in your room again aren't you? I just want to help, I know what you're going through!"

"Son." The voice of his father called. The poet turned around quickly to meet his father's eyes. "As much as I've put you through, as much pain and suffering you've had to endure, I did it because I love you."

The poet couldn't meet his father's eyes. Soon his mother appeared and began to speak.

"I'm sorry that I couldn't help you. I love you. You're my child, and I tried to protect you the best I could."

"Open the door! Please, open the damn door!" The voice called. Desperation filled the air.

The poet opened another bottle and took a swig. His throat burned, his forehead felt as if it were to explode.

The voice slammed against the baracaded door. "God no! I beg you, open the fucking door! Don't do this! She's not the only thing that matters! You'll live without her, she may have been the first to love you, but she won't be the last!" Panic soon followed.

"My child." Both parents spoke. "We did all we could for you, we tried. We may have failed once in a while, but that's the best we could do."

The voice began to sob. "You're not alone... People care, people who couldn't bare to see you in a coffin."

The poet stopped in mid-drink.

"They forced me to grow up. They tied me down, trying to understand, they forced me to swallow pills. I can't forget that. I was never a child, I was never a man." He thought to himself.

"Answer me damn it!" The voice hit the door over and over, trying to break it down.

The poet's hand let go of the bottle and slowly went into the drawer. He analyzed the object within, the cold metal wrapped around his finger. He never said a word. The spoken word was never his thing. A poet wants to be remembered for their written words, not their spoken ones.

"Don't do this! For Christ's sake! Please no!" The voice tried with all it's might to break the door down.

A loud crack rang through the air, followed by a sickening thud.

Description
He lifted the poison to his lips once more, the cold, bitter taste is the only thing that allows him to feel. His mind is twisted, his vison blurry, what is a man like he? The screen before him, the only form of light in the darkness that shrouds his worn out body.

He remembers his father, the man he barely knew. The kite danced in the air, his father by his side. "Father, why can't we fly?" He asked like any child would.

"But people do fly, we fly in planes and balloons. People have learned to fly without nature, we know how to manipulate."

The boy looked up at the kite, the wind gave it such character, as if it were alive.

The darkness slowly crept back. The poet wiped a tear from his eye.

"Mother, I don't understand, I can't spell this word."

"Together. To-get-her."

The poet took another drink, he was beginning to feel numb again, the misery was returning. He tried to shake it away, pretend like he wasn't sad, but no matter what he tried, another tear dripped from his eyes.

The line on the screen popped in and out of existance, impatient, wanting the rest of the story to unfold.

He couldn't take this any more. This suffering, this pain, he wanted it to end. Love was just a waste, he thought he could change, the darkness in his soul was always there, waiting for the chance to strike. His face grew warm, the only feeling that existed. His wrists were covered up, to protect themselves from the blade. Such misery, the destiny of a poet, to die unknowing the kindness of humanity. On his wall was a simple copy of a famous painting, the painting of a crazed man who put himself in harm's way for love. The moon looked exactly the same as the picture, the lights of the city reflected that of the painter's sights.

Poison spilled from his lips, unable to keep it inside anymore. He coughed and forced more down his throat.

"She was my friend, I loved her, I lost her to the beast that I am." He thought. His hand scratched his chin. Stubble scratched back. What a broken man. "How? How could I fail? Can't I have anything?"

The poet's fingers tapped his keyboard, he reached for the poison again. This was to be his masterpiece. His head turned and he vomited. His head stung from the night before. He cried himself to sleep the previous night, and the night before. This pain was unlike any he knew before. He had been alone all his life, yet this lonliness was the worst. Not a man, yet not a boy, he wanted someone to accept him. He thought he had found the one, but she left him to fight his monster alone.

"How could I blame her? Nobody wants a beast such as I." The words tumbled around in his head.

Upstairs a voice called. "You're home, I know you are."

The poet began to weep, his eyes burned as he tried to release the tears. The bottle was raised yet again to his lips. Thoughts of suicide ran rampant through his head.

"These bottles... No. No. You aren't doing this to yourself. I can help you! Just let me." The voice became louder as it realised what it was tripping over.

He dropped the bottle and reached into his desk.

"Damn it, You're in your room again aren't you? I just want to help, I know what you're going through!"

"Son." The voice of his father called. The poet turned around quickly to meet his father's eyes. "As much as I've put you through, as much pain and suffering you've had to endure, I did it because I love you."

The poet couldn't meet his father's eyes. Soon his mother appeared and began to speak.

"I'm sorry that I couldn't help you. I love you. You're my child, and I tried to protect you the best I could."

"Open the door! Please, open the damn door!" The voice called. Desperation filled the air.

The poet opened another bottle and took a swig. His throat burned, his forehead felt as if it were to explode.

The voice slammed against the baracaded door. "God no! I beg you, open the fucking door! Don't do this! She's not the only thing that matters! You'll live without her, she may have been the first to love you, but she won't be the last!" Panic soon followed.

"My child." Both parents spoke. "We did all we could for you, we tried. We may have failed once in a while, but that's the best we could do."

The voice began to sob. "You're not alone... People care, people who couldn't bare to see you in a coffin."

The poet stopped in mid-drink.

"They forced me to grow up. They tied me down, trying to understand, they forced me to swallow pills. I can't forget that. I was never a child, I was never a man." He thought to himself.

"Answer me damn it!" The voice hit the door over and over, trying to break it down.

The poet's hand let go of the bottle and slowly went into the drawer. He analyzed the object within, the cold metal wrapped around his finger. He never said a word. The spoken word was never his thing. A poet wants to be remembered for their written words, not their spoken ones.

"Don't do this! For Christ's sake! Please no!" The voice tried with all it's might to break the door down.

A loud crack rang through the air, followed by a sickening thud.