I knew a boy,
he liked to draw.
Be he drew pictures nobody saw.
He was most creative late at night.
Locked in his room.
In the dark,
out of sight.
He kept a hushed secret no one knew.
He told not a soul.
And his collection grew.
His drawings were different.
He used neither paper,
nor pen.
But needed gauze,
or a bandage
every now and again.
Together,
by the window we stood
and as we watched the passing cars.
He rolled up his sleeves,
he showed me his scars.
He felt ashamed,
looked down at his shoes.
I rolled up my sleeves,
and whispered in his ear.
I whispered so only he could hear,
"I draw too."
(m.s)
