I know a boy who draws his way through life,

He didn’t do it traditionally,

On a piece of paper,

Or with a pencil.

His canvas was himself,

 

And no matter what he did,

Or what he thought,

His canvas was alway beautiful,

Even when others thought not.

 

He slowly and slowly crawled out of his shell,

And started talking a little louder,

Started smiling a little longer.

Our silence would usually be shattered by his siren like laugh,

It could easily make anyone stop in their tracks,

 

I know a boy who draws on himself,

Sometimes needing a bandaid or two,

Sometimes something else.

 

I can only wish,

That one day he could find,

A separate canvas to draw on,

One that didn’t take up so much time,

To heal.

 

I know a boy who used to draw down his arms,

Creating beautiful monuments and mountains,

That boy learned to fly by,

 

And soon enough he picked up a pencil and paper,

And started to draw there instead,

 

This boy was me,

From not too long ago.

I took some advice,

From a not so friend or foe.

It is the reason why I can pick up the pen and write,

And I can only hope that I will not want to draw like that again.

 

I know a boy who laughs like a siren,

But can’t understand why people like him,

And I know that boy,

Because that little boy is me.