Spoken of as an inspiration,
Inspiring others with his creation,
He stands alone on the island of misfit toys.
They claim he is the most beautiful of the ruined boys.
Called a muse by writers and intellects alike,
Would you guess his sarcasm is out of spite?
He made it through the darkness to find he was not truly spared,
Tricked by the lies spoken to him, everyone cared,
If he would only let them in.
But telling was not the end, it would just begin,
The flow of reporters asking about his multiple tries attempted,
Curious if stories like his had tempted,
The loading of his gun, the one he never fired.
The rows of scars he had acquired.
He answers the questions honestly, after his realization,
Of the thousands of teenagers in his old situation.
Teenagers thinking of ways to go quickly,
Those to which the thoughts of leaving bed sound sickly.
He chose to help those who needed it the most,
Kids who had gone so far, to relapse after being so close.
Once, he had been there, alone in his pain.
They needed help to ensure their stories would not be the same.
Alive, but empty nonetheless inside.
Refusing to reveal that some things he still chose to hide.
He speaks out for teenage depression awareness.
Every morning he writes love on both of his wrists.
Through his words, millions of lives have been saved.
They call him the man by which the road to recovery was paved.