He lived
He didn't know how or why. But he was there. Breathing in life. Having the audacity the take up space. Refusing to be erased.
Trying to not forget himself like he did before. He thought he could get away with it for some reason. Thought no one would notice his absence.
He was right.
Like a single missing book in a grand library.
No one noticed.
No one expect him, so he made it his duty to find himself. This was his story after all. No one could write it for him.
Whenever he wanted to put a period after a sentence he choose, he made sure to change it into an ellipsis. He knew he had much more to say. He just didn't know the words yet.
He thought his story was quite boring. The typical story of a boy with a tragic childhood that left him feeling unworthy of any luxurys such as love or friendships. His hands smuged ink on everything he touched. He never dared to touch the heart of another. He never wanted to make that mistake again. He felt like his story wasn't worth finishing, but nobody likes cliffhangers.
This was before he split himself on paper. Before he baptized himself with words. Before he put down the knife and picked up a pen. He wrote down everything.
He is still writing. He isn't stopping anytime soon...
YOU ARE READING
A Boy And His Box
PoetryHey! This is my first time doing something like this so sorry if I suck. This is going to be a book mostly filled with poems I write. I'm going to do other things with later ,so of you don't like poetry stick around for some adventures. This book is...
