Well, I have a newfound obsession with free-form poetry, so here goes! Don't own anything, amazingly enough.

Three

Brothers united through faceless gravestones

Tied together with ropes of rotted flesh and Social Services clipboards (why must you plague us?)

A laughing family photo torn into shreds of unpaid bills and too-small paychecks

The pieces being spat upon by Madras-clad demons

Hope being choked from our blue lips as we give them – THEM – the upper hand and our final shards of shattered dignity for their own abuse (I hope it cuts them open)

Three

College acceptance letters were received (I danced for joy)

Only to have them torn away by the sneering faces of fate, twisting my smile into a mask of grotesque hatred

Hatred of THEM, for having everything they fancy and desire as we watch with nothing (but our hair grease and their sneers)

As our familiar paint-splattered backdrop falls to the ground

My cries echo (can THEY not hear them?) off my blank bedroom walls, the sky sending down a reign of darkness

But once morning dawns I cover up insomnia with one, two bundles of roofing and your "A+"s (why can't they see the brokenness?)

And prepare for another night of stifled howls and prickling eyes (must my own body betray me, as well?)

Three

Seconds it took to let my fear flood down to my over-heated hand, acting of its own accord

Your hand flies to your reddened face and you're scared (of me?) as you hasten to make your way towards the open door

And you runrunrun away from my apologetic arms and towards your own destruction (and it hurts me more than you)

Three

Days of holy silence (will the Bible story come true?)

Tears fall onto sweat-stained t-shirts and my arms stay open – waiting – for your resurrection – for my resurrection

And our humble abode's walls droop without you to hold them up (please, don't let them fall)

But you don't return – no – your voice doesn't bother to flood my aching ears, flow down to my bloody heart (Is it still beating?)

Three

Minutes was the phone call from the police station ("He is here")

And so I runrunrun through the white, clean walls and watch as you – blackened, tearstained – close your paper eyelids and rest your head against the dollhouse chair

But I can't even hold up your small (so small) limp body and bring you home to our broken-glass, stepping-stone home

You may be yanked from my arms (don't go!)

But while my very existence shatters, I clutch you tighter and pray in wailing song that maybe (maybe?) it will be okay.

I'd love a review.