A model for tee-shirts expected to be worn by stoners,

Despite insulin being his only drug,

Who’s told he resembles Mick Jagger.

One who listens to tunes associated with razor blades,

Yet remains unscathed.

 

Always touting a hoodie,

That used to have “The Who”

Sprawled across it,

But has since transformed from black to violet,

And sports a Mickey Mouse instead.

 

A boy who cannot seem to translate the sounds

That he hears in his mind

Into treble clef,

Or bass for that matter,

But still dreams of Beatles and aeroplanes o’er the seas.

 

A mess of straight As and

So he’s told,

“Talents”

That make any and all failures so much more desolate,

And victories less than rewarding.

 

He knows people from around the world,

And has been to Canada once.

Doesn’t like “The Breakfast Club”

But loves “The Fault in Our Stars”

(The novel).

 

“A very irregular head, and… not anything

That you think I am anyway”

Like Barret said;

Unless you think he doesn’t know who he is. In which case,

You’d be correct.