Sometimes Poem by Chester Whitfield

He had a book in his lap,
and everything was right.
His stomach was full.
His two parents sat one story below
watching intently at the television
thinking only of the love
living and breathing only feet above their heads.
He was warm in his home.
He had friends,
more than the fingers on his hands
and the toes on his feet.
He should have felt only the warmth
of the sun pouring through the window,
caressing his skin and giving it a healthy glow.
He should have had a heart
that knew only the rhythm of happiness,
and yet in it's place existed a deep cavern.
A vast expanse of dark and damp,
in it only the most demonic spirits existed.
In his world of perfection
the boy looked down at the book
and felt the light leave his eyes.