Anonymous

The following poem was handed in to a teacher in Regina by a grade 12 student.

He always wanted to explain things.

But no one cared.

So he drew.

Sometimes he would draw and it wasn't anything.

He wanted to carve it in stone or write it in the sky.

And it would be only him and the sky and the things inside him that needed saying.

And it was after that he drew the picture.

It was a beautiful picture.

He kept it under his pillow and would let no on see it.

And he would look at it every night and think about it.

And when it was dark, and his eyes were closed, he could still see it.

And it was all of him.

And he loved it.

When he started school he brought it with him.

Not to show anyone, but just to have with him like a friend.

It was funny about school.

He sat in a square, brown desk

Like all the other square, brown desks

And he thought it should it be red.

And his room was a square brown room.

Like all the other rooms

And it was tight and close.

And stiff.

He hated to hold the pencil and chalk.

With his arm stiff and his feet flat on the floor.

Stiff.

With the teacher watching and watching.

The teacher came and spoke to him.

She told him to wear a tie like all the other boys.

He said he didn't like to them.

And she said it didn't matter!

After that they drew.

And he drew all yellow and it was the way he felt about morning.

And it was beautiful.

The teacher came and smiled at him.

'What's this?' she said 'Why don't you draw something like Ken's drawing?

Isn't that beautiful?'

After that his mother bought him a tie.

And he always drew airplanes and rocket ships like everyone else.

And he threw the old picture away.

And when he lay alone looking at the sky,

It was big and blue and all of everything,

But he wasn't anymore.

He was square inside

And brown,

And his hands were stiff.

And he was like everyone else.

And the things inside him that needed saying didn't need it anymore.

It had stopped pushing.

It was crushed.

Stiff.

Like everything else.

The author of this poem committed suicide after he wrote this poem.

Back to Life Matters

Back to Pandora's Palace