The Boy Who Drew
There once was a boy who liked to draw,
but the pictures he drew, nobody saw.
Most artistic was he, late at night,
with the owl hooting and the stars bright.
Run the water, let it flow.
Take the knife, strike the blow.
All this he did, out of sight,
hidden from the world, in the dead of night.
Day by day his gallery grew,
his pieces of art always the same fiery hue.
His art was one that needed not pen or paper,
yet sometimes might require a bandage to cover.
Then one night, as we stood by the river,
the boy cast down his eyes and rolled up his sleeve.
He stared at the ground for he was afraid
of what I would do, when I saw what he drew
scrawled on his wrist with a sharp blade or two.
I leaned my head in and rolled up my sleeve.
“It’s alright.” I whispered,
“I draw too.”
