Here is a poem. How does it resonate with you? Perhaps you would like to give yourself a few moments after reading the poem. What does the poem bring up in you?
He always wanted to say things -
But none understood.
He always wanted to explain things -
But no one cared.
So he drew.
Sometimes he would just draw and it
wasn't anything. He wanted to
carve it in stone or write it
in the sky.
He would lie out in the grass and
look up 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 that he
drew the picture.
He kept it under his pillow and
would let no one 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 to school he
brought it with him.
Not to show anyone, but just to
have it 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 be red, and his room
was a square brown room, like
all the other square, brown
rooms and it was tight and
close and stiff.
He hated to hold the pencil and
the chalk with his arm 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 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 them and
she said it didn't matter.
After that he drew.
And he drew all yellow and it
was the way he felt about
the 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?
And 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 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 thing inside that
needed saying didn't need
saying anymore.
It had stopped pushing.
It was crushed.
Stiff.
Like everyone else.
Note:
While the poem's author is often cited as Des Petersen, there is no definitive way to verify this. The poem has been circulating online for many years without a confirmed author, though it is commonly attributed to a high school student who later died by suicide.
Photo by cottonbro studio
