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This is a poem my brother wrote. He had actuallt intended it to be a letter to me. But i dont know how that happened. I found it the other day and thought people should know that he is as good a writer as i am.

As a man puts to his lips that dank, sordid liquid, what is he thinking of?
Does he realize that he's acting just as stupidly when he first puts it to his lips
as he does when his brain is finally drowned in it?
Does he recognize the harsh realities brought on' he must-
But it seems he doesn't care in the least.
When cramped balding cubicle workers keep their printers company
as they shoot out file after file of statistics,
And smiling reporters, perfectly manicured, sit properly in their seats
and sing to the world how many teens were killed that night,
And when radio show hosts that giggle at trivia games
nonchalantly recite that Jack Daniels murdered a father,
how could it not be known?
The men must not care, could not possibly care.
Lives are torn, thrown bare and emaciated,
And minds are lacerated, while the rain simply meets the sidewalk for its nightly date,
And soon small rivers are humming softly on their way along the streets,
Nicely parting for the occasional empty beer bottle dying alone on the pavement.
Wives will throw themselves out windows, husbands, uncles, brothers
Dressing in black.
They don't say, they never say, 'I don't want to see him in that box- I don't want to see him like that. I want to remember him how he was before.'
Because he was already like that. His brain never truly functioned, did it?
After he started to shove pint after pint down his throat,
When he smiled, his teeth were never really clean, were they?
His eyes were never truly focused.
He was already dead.
The stories have become hackneyed. The tears clich'd.
No words escape howling mouths; burning, blazing vocal chords that scream in despondency.
As souls hang dilapidated over spiked fences, and the sky pounds out rhythmic words:
'The grass will grow again. The guilt will fade. The questions might not be answered, but you'll move on.'
But the heart can only take so much.
Hands shake and pulses speed as eyes scan surroundings.
Depressants make the minds of others so much more alive.
The poison that turns adults into five year olds.
But those adults were always children, never giving themselves the chance to grow up.
And dying before they had reason to try