They told him that he had to be quiet.

That no one wanted to hear his voice.
That it’s not important what he had to say. 
He was different.
He lived what he felt.
He spoke what he wished.
Not a clue to how the world perceived him.
What he searched for was freedom.
What he felt was a need to be.
No one knew that home was a danger zone.
Going to sleep with bruises was normal.
That his mind was under assault because of his identity.
Outside on the streets was an easier life than the one he called home.
Concrete jungle Mass was open
and church was liberation that was serving 
the holy Eucharist of realization.
There were no messiahs preaching the good word of acceptance on moms make shift altar.
Leave The Father, 
save The Son, 
help me Holy Spirit.
The street corner congregation was looking to stone him.
They didn’t agree with his religious zeal of identification 
with his 
live and let live radicalness.
Unique was yet to be an epiphany.
Their change was set upon eyes that saw their life right but not his.
Poor broken spirit 
in desperation you sought an answer.
Prayers were pleas for death.
No one ever spoke or asked him.
He sought comfort in solitude. 
The last date was midnight, a blade and a purpose to live in

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