He walks with

   his leather jacket slumped over 

   his shoulders

         and his violet backpack

         swinging violently


  his shoulders.

His mouth is

  a motor,

         with constant rap lyrics flowing


 his lips.

He walks up to my car:

  And pulls

      the handle;

its locked.

  His red, blue eyes stare through

         the dirty pane.

  Please, open. Help me. 

  I move my hand to help him

  He's high again.

    He's depressed again.

         He's lonely again. 

    He's high again. 

My brother--pretending he's 

  too cool

  to care



Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741