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



Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

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