Here the boy sat writing for his future.

He'd hoped it would all work out 

yet the standards have been set by the the past.

For the boy was not the magnificent Walt or Dickens himself.

Yet he still pushed himself, 

creating the art they so desired.

 Ambition.

 

 "Is the future even in my own hands?" he thought.

He was unsure.

Though he remained painting the picture of the heart,

still, swelling

evermore in proportion for the fair lady.

The emotion flowed from his veins to the bright screen which sat before him

It daintily danced across the page

like a spring time bird's chorus.

The mood was dampening because it was just fantasy, 

but he felt so relieved to let everything out.

Birth.

 

 

 The boy brushed the keys against the canvas

showing the society that he was raised and fit for them. 

Accepting their rules as his own

Accepting their guide lines as his own

 Conforming.

 

 He knew, though

He did not want to fit in, 

but to stand out.

Enamored with being unlike the others

yet his future was being toyed with,

so he must.

An exposition it seemed.

 Accepting.

 

 The boy was finished with his work.

it conveyed the needed compassion

for the fantasy he thought of

was himself, 

 Lost.