On the Inside

That little boy was always happy
Talked real loud, often yapping
His personality was brightly shining
Though on the inside he was dying

He joked dirty, laughed aloud
Like an angel on a cloud
Looked as if his soul was flying
Though on the inside he was dying

He played loudly in the band
He presented a helpful hand
All the time just barely sighing
Though on the inside he was dying

No one noticed, not one bit
When his wrists he tried to slit
He hid them away, his face lying
Though on the inside he was dying

Then one day without a plea
He hung himself from a pear tree
On that day he had stopped trying
Because on the inside he was dying

We laid him down in a box and bed
So he could rest his weary head
We wished him well in the afterlife
His death brought us bitter strife
Because on the inside we were dying