Arms painted red, 

                                              with panda-like bags,

                                                  bloodshot eyes, 

                                        the boy still puts on a smile, 

                                        a smile so small and so dull,

   yet no one notices his red-rimmed eyes and slurred words from blood loss, 

              how can his mother not notice that he’s fighting for his life,

           when he comes home from school verbally beaten and abused, 

how can his father not care when he hears the boy’s screams and cries as he’s beating                                                                

                                       His son for being a “worthless child”,

                            how can his sister not see he is being bullied,

                             how can no one see he is fighting for his life, 

                  well maybe now they’ll notice as their cry at his funeral,

          thinking about all the things they could’ve done or could’ve said, 

 Only now it's too late to take back what they did or rather what they didn’t do, 

                                              no words to the dead.