Picking up his brush, the boy painted away the pain. He had been painting for years, each time a new cause behind the twisted paintings he had created.
The same old canvas, painted over again and again. His pain beyond his years, a youth lost to the torment he was a subject to. A lucid depiction of the life he had lived, this canvas hid no secret meaning. It's muse was clear to all others.
To break it all down he made sure to paint the same picture again each day, so that the meaning could never be confused to anyone, not even those closest, those who thought they could understand. The canvas of which he had chosen was the palest of pale, the thinnest of canvas and already the most used. He chose it because it was his favorite one, his only way to express his true feelings.
They can't say he never tried, tried to hide his pain. It was too hard, the boy tried his best to smile for those who cared for his soul. Those who wanted him to stop painting, knew nothing of what he did. He would hide the paintings to save their morality, to save their piece of mind, for the innocent should never be exposed to such disturbing art of this mindset.
He puts down the brush and sits down to admire the work of this night, he waits in silence as the paint dries, the boy trails his finger along the paint which has already crusted over. He smiles and picks of the paint which had driped into the wrong places.
The young, helpless boy washed his brush of the paint and then looked in the mirror at the scars of old paintings. He sighed and rolled downhis sleeves, to cover the work once again. A night of crying out for help that no-one will hear, muted by the very one who screams out.
Help me, I am lost in myself.
