he stares
up at the ceiling
alone
just the gymnasts
practicing
their routine
above him
and a skull
splitting pain
reminding him
he still
reluctantly
somewhat exists

he gives
too much
most likely for
too long
clinging to the
broken things
he foolishly believes
he can put
back together again
clutching tight
to dreams
he stubbornly refuses
to admit
are long dead
soot stains
where a lack
of accomplishment
becomes another
burden of proof

he stares
up at the passive
judgment of
the ceiling
spilling his
pain and regret
into the
silence
forgotten
alone
having to accept
he will never
be put first
in anyone’s life
not even
the sad parody
he calls his own