I knew a boy who liked to draw,
He drew pictures that no one saw.
He was most artistic late at night,
In the bathroom, out of sight.
He kept a secret no one knew,
He didn't tell a soul and his gallery grew.
His drawings were different,
No paper or pen,
But needed a bandage now and again.
We stood by the river, under the stars.
He rolled up his sleeve and showed me his scars.
He felt embarrassed and looked down at his shoe,
Then I rolled up my sleeves and whispered, "I draw, too."
