That Poor Boy

What a difficulty for an aspiring dreamer to sulk in the high grasses of the backyard.

To mope with two bare feet in the lake.

He sits and ponders and yet his muse eludes him.

Why has she forsaken you, you poor, misunderstood child?

You deep thinker, a soul seeker.

It's okay, those clouds up ahead look like rain, perhaps it will remind him of the day that life was static on the television screen and his shoes had holes in them.

But what if they aren't rainy?

What if it's just not that bad?
The boy with the wooden face sits in his room all alone, wondering at the outside world and it's splendor, trying to recapture an ever-more elusive memory of the world he once enjoyed.

And now he wishes he had simply enjoyed the colors rather than trying to see the tiny rainclouds orbiting the bottlebrush blooms.

But he is alone again, and will continue to be.

At least his muse has returned to him.

Sadly, his pens have all run dry, and he doesn't really feel like writing anyway.

"Maybe tomorrow."