For the Boy who could not Paint

Why does his story, on the news, hold you?

Because the beautiful young man’s eyes

were hungry and deep.

 

Teenaged boy killed his brothers and himself.

 

Why this particular story?

The photos of him—handsome face—deep brown eyes,

haunted eyes, seer’s eyes,

seeing far, seeing past.

 

You had no knowledge beyond press reports.

Fifteen—“all his life ahead of him”,

choosing to exit and take his brothers with him.

 

Had his brothers betrayed him,

teased him,

taunted him?

Somehow let him down?

 

He could not say it all,

tell it all.

It overwhelmed him.

 

He got a gun and used

it, instead of words or painting.

 

If only he could have expressed his anger,

his disappointment.

If only they saw or heard—

If only—

 

You cannot understand the violence,

the killing of his brothers.

But, the extreme sadness,

disappointment,

despair, disillusion,

these, you understand.

And the anger,

the explosion of emotions

in chest and head.

 

Finding

no hope,

no understanding,

no hearing,

no listening.

 

Feeling no caring.

 

They say they love

but there is

no feeling.

 

Ancient, sensitive soul could take no more.

 

If only,

he could have

found a way to dance,

to drum, to sing,

to paint, to carve,

to spell it all out.

 

If only—