Ink

He was born gentle,
Never wanting to leave home.
A quiet boy, so strange and awkward.
Unable to muster up the courage to speak
This boy sits alone at the back of the class,
Spilling lonely tears across the pages of his heroes.

Every morning he wakes slowly
Every morning he refuses to leave his bed.
The smile offered by a loving parent seems false, forced and empty,
The world itself seems painted in black and white.
School, his prison that calls him away from home,
Solitude is the only companion he has known.

His classmates are curious, yet afraid,
They only wish to ask why he sits alone at the back of the class
From seven to three he is granted a single escape.
An escape from this reality which offers him nothing,
A tiny, black, ball-point pen held in his hand.
This is his escape.

This ink, so black and bold, only ink can create worlds as colorful as his.
Mountains leap from his notebook and rivers babel across the page.
Eagles soar high above the words while lions charge across the sentences.
Knights will slay hideous beasts and criminals are punished for their atrocious acts.
His ink can break the barriers of his limited reality.

In these worlds, he becomes the hero, strong, just, and handsome.
The bully and his friends become ugly beasts who will be brought to justice.
The blonde beauty becomes the fair princess, madly in love with the hero.
Every day, the adventure continues,
Each problem this boy faces becomes a new escape.
Pen and paper is all he needs,

For this world bends only to his ink