There was a note Though it really only furthered confusion It would have been clear to anyone who found this boy, our son That this ill conceived offensive was no suicide His intention was not to k** himself Affronting the laws of auto erotic asphyxia, nothing else His neck was bruised and kinda scratched up It was clear that he had struggled It was evident he knew it had gone too far A thought not actualized soon enough His intention was not to k** himself See right here it says Forgive me if you find me - dead! This note is supposed to comfort us? A grisly way to transcend into d**h Gagging, gasping, struggling for breath A dislocated scene; blood vomit drool and cum An image you won't eviscerate from your thoughts So what do we do, who do we call? What'll they say, do we really want anyone to see him this way? Surely someone engaged in acts this bizarre must give something away Look at his face, all disfigured and blue They say life is what you make it Well our boy made his a f**ing mess How often I wonder, would he flirt with d**h? How often would he reach out to caress the reaper's hand