Lost boy blues.

Lost in my nind, unable to cope.
My life line is short, like this literary rope.
It seems much shorter, as I reach the end.
Locked in my mind, the shell once again.
On comes the darkness, engulfed by the pain.
My thoughts overwhelming, my speech is retained.
Deep dark self torture, my mind in refrain.
The hurt comes again. The downpour of rain.
The shell that remains. My world of pain.
My world of insane. No more to gain.
In memory lane. No more refrain.
The world of self torture, that I adore,
No one to talk to, self sorts out scores.
The tools I've learned, from years of pain,
The 8 year old child, is all that remains.
To teach himself to cope, with the help of a saint.
Her words like a razor, leave deep lasting stains.
He clings to her lossons, scrambling to learn.
The right way of coping, the right way, he yearns.
The right way of coping, and processing pain.
But when she shuts herself down, lost in pain this boy remains.