A Curtain Drawn Over Dreamers.

When in grade school,

he drew gently with erasers on his desk,

the patterns rubbing away

with a flick of his small hands.

It was safe.

He could express himself

without getting caught,

no consequences to his actions.

He drew, and it was safe, and soft,

and he dreamed of wonderful things.

When in middle school,

he sketched on the smoothness,

quick strokes that ran

sharp against the faux-wood desk exterior.

It was defiance.

He could taunt fate with his graphite,

before erasing it

just before the teacher saw.

He drew, and it was quick, and hard,

and he dreamed of ordinary things.

When in high school,

he carved deep into the wood,

his words crude on the pristine surface,

unable to be washed away.

It was rebellion.

He could dig an angry tribute

to himself, the shavings from his pen

littering his too-tight jeans.

He drew, and it was harsh, and bitter,

and he dreamed of his great escape.

Now as an 'adult' ,

he attempts to make his mark,

suffocating among crowds

of similar dreamers.

It is weary.

He can express, and taunt,

and carve his way into the world,

without even leaving indelible marks.

He draws, and it is difficult, and lonely,

and he dreams of nothing at all.

Sad but true .