You could say that he was a Carpenterof sorts ---he built heartsfrom the outside in fixing rebuilding with his own parts, making a sacrifice just to hear their laughs just to see their smiles so that his own mind, his own soul could just possibly grow back. His hammer --his bare hands.His wrench --his fingertips. His nails flesh and bloodAnd his wit, his saw -- cutting through pain,cutting through apathy. And like this, he’d fix those around him;those that wanted itand those who didn’t; until his skin washardenedhis emotions raw his eyes wildand his stature forsaken. And so lived that lonely Carpenter,that mender of hearts,in a world all his own until only he was leftbroken.
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