Closed off and sitting in the corner seat,
the boy stares out the window longing to be on the other side.
He’s been told of greener grass but has yet to taste it.
Imagining the sweetness on the tip of his tongue,
he places his palm flat against the glass.
Outside people are segregated by activities,
their faces etched forever with laughter lines,
their faces showing signs of love and adventure and promise,
their faces painted like the galaxy he’s read about but never witnessed.
In the classroom he sits quietly watching the board,
the chalk moves across creating letters and forming sentences.
He’s become accustomed to sitting and falling into routine.
The chalk moves in fluid motions drawing him closer,
placing him under a spell that can only be undone by his inner desires,
creating words that are imprinted in his brain forever.
He leans closer, slowly inching forward, feeling the need to absorb its contents.
He stands up and the desk shifts at his force, his papers flying everywhere.
Stalking towards the board he lifts his hand an inch away from the surface.
Letting out an animalistic growl,
he places his palm flat against the chalkboard.
Outside it begins to thunder and rain, a loud rumble, snapping him out of his trance.
He’s struck with the antidote to his enchantment.
He begins to taste something new.
He longs for more.
The chalk stops and nails drag across the board,
the sickening sound forces him to cringe away.
Everything and everyone is screaming and yelling,
acting like syrens trying to force him to continue and lure him back.
Dueling with himself he fights internal battles.
It’s light versus dark.
Howling with determination he runs outside.
Others stop and stare. Who is this boy?
A stranger to them all, he’s the one who was a silent follower.
One small girl walks up and whispers oh so quietly, “who are you?”
Dead inside he walks away. Years he’s known, but none have known him.
His laughter lines that he drew on with pencil have been erased,
the rub marks, looking like blood on a white canvas, are prominent of his undoing.
The chalk starts again as his soul slowly drifts away.
His own book may look blank,
but it’s filled with invisible ink.
His own expressions may look blank,
but you can’t always get the markings of pencils to disappear.
