The following poem was an English assignment for a High School senior. Two weeks after he wrote this beautiful poem, he committed suicide.
He always wanted to say things, but no one understood
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.
He would lie out on the grass and look up at the sky, and it would be just him and the sky and the things inside of him that needed saying.
And it was after that that he drew the picture. It was a beautiful picture. 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 it with him as a friend
It was funny about school. He sat in a square, gray desk. Like all the other square, gray desks. And he thought it should be red. And he room was a square, gray room, like all the other rooms. And it was tight, and close, and stiff.
He hated to hold the pencil and the chalk, with his arms stiff, and his feet flat on the floor, stiff, with the teacher watching and watching.
And then he had to write numbers, and they weren't anything. They were worse than the letters that could be something if you put them together.
And the numbers were tight, and square and he hated the whole thing.
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 ties. She said that didn't matter.
After that he drew. And he drew all yellow. And it was how he felt about morning. And it was beautiful.
The teacher came again and smiled down at him. What's this? she asked. Why don't you draw something like your friends drawing? Isn't that beautiful? It was all questions.
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 out alone, looking up at the sky, it was big and blue and all of everything. And he wasn't anymore. He was square inside, and brown, and his hands were stiff, and he was like everyone else.
And the thing inside of him that needed saying didn't need saying anymore.
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Here is another poem you may wish to check out:
Now I Sit Me Down In School Where Praying is Against the Rules
Recommended podcast:
Warning About Public Schools 1950s - Time to Get Out, by Pastor Kevin Swanson
