The Drawing days that use to be
The moments of holding the pencil
Never to be seen for months
A laziness act
Or a lost of inspiration
What should he do

No one else
Has taken a glimpse of these papers,
Just the boy, and an old pencil.
Bonded together, by past secrets and lies,
He tries every day
To forget them.

He is the apple that fell
too close to the trunk, worm-holed
bruised and rotten to the core,
Never in the mood to do anything,
Scared.

His fingers are getting all ready
But Its the mind that had lost all vision
Draw is wat he uses to have only
which he himself sees and communicate

But now he's no alone anymore
He just clueless and lost
He hates to dream its just so troublesome

Its hard to walk with a worn shoes