I sat down at the small desk
in the corner of my room.
I picked up the gift my mother
had given me before she left-
a single silver pen.
the little boy wanted to stay inside today,
reading books and writing hero stories.
but he was just a child.
he didn't know himself yet.
I twirled the pen around in my hand.
The words were sloppy.
No one would ever be
able to understand them.
Maybe he was right.
the boy wanted to write again,
it seemed to be the only way he could free his mind.
but he was just an idiot.
he didn't know what he really wanted.
Even if I wasn't very good with
words, something about letting
the tip of the pen touch the soft
white paper felt releasing.
the boy grew older,
but the urges to put pen to paper never seemed to fade.
he was just a fool.
maybe the desire would go away.
I thought about all of the girls
I had talked to just this week.
What did they really think of me?
the boy's father found his notebook and shook the house with his voice,
for he was no longer a boy and he needed to grow up.
he was childish.
when would he learn to act his age?
The girl with the chocolatey, dark skin.
The girl with the mesmerizing green eyes.
The girl with the smile that could spread peace across every nation.
There was always something about them.
the father threw all of his son's paper away,
what good were words if there wasn't any paper to write it on?
the boy was garbage.
he wished he was never born.
If only they knew I longed for their attention more than they wanted mine.
A little bit of ink splatters on the page. I watch it create a tiny puddle around the very last period.
The words are just as scattered as my brain.
the boy
