I knew a boy who liked to draw.

He drew pictures that nobody saw.

He was most artistic at night,

in the bedroom out of sight.

He kept a secret no one knew,

He didn’t tell a soul and he’s gallery grew.

He’s drawings was different.

No paper nor pen.

But needed a bandage now and again.

We stood by the river under the stars.

He rolled up he’s sleeves and showed me his scars.

He felt embarrassed and looked down on his shoes.

Then I rolled up my sleeves and whispered “I draw pictures too.”


We all deal with hurt in our own way then the only way to heal is with someone feeling the same pain

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