Show me, Muse, and through me tell the story
Of that man of many dreams,
The outsider, who at several times expressed all he could, only with his sketches, not saying a word.
Each pencil park, dab of paint, hint of color, expressed the anger, frustration, and knowledge caused from his surroundings.
Furiously, erasing, he could not erase the memories, leaving the unseen marks of deceit present.
Exposed, he saw the hurt and confusion in others’ lives, the barrier between expressing oneself, and becoming another meaningless soul in society.
On the path, he too suffered the power of conformity, becoming unconscious of the person he had turned into.
Desperately, yearning for acceptance, leaving his ambitions, he closed the door to the imagination he once admired.
He could not change; it was too late, though he wanted to:
He realized his transformation was meaningless, but the door to the unknown world was locked shut.
Slowly recognizing the truth behind his fellow beings exposed the corruption he once feared.
Sometime after realizing the truth,
When all the others, secretly seeking importance in their lives had fled,
He grabbed his pencil and paper, hoping for his mind to rekindle.
As the paper plummeted onto the floor, creating a mountain of furrowed waste,
He was confined by the long seclusion to his true emotions, who strived for true acceptance.
To the last stroke, an image resurfaced, long waiting to be shown.