Picture my brother, a sixteen-year-old boy forced to be my dad.
Living in a broken home where our secrets never left the door.
A high school drop out but everyday waking up at six.
Waking me up with a gentle shake from his rough scarred hands.
Helping me get dressed with a smile on his face,
Everyday telling me things would get better.

Placing his huge paw around my miniture hand
We would make our way out that god-forsaken door.
Once we made it to my school he would get to my eye level and say
“Kenny, be strong and things will get better someday.”

Once school was over I could always depend
On my brother to be there to take my hand.
And once again we would head to that terrible place we called home.
As we arrived home he would press my body against his well-built chest
And everytime he would pull me away from his six-four frame
A single tear would force its way out of my big brown eye.