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Boy with a World of Charcoal.

Author: EpsilonpsiiChi
ASL Info:    20 years old/ There.
Elite Ratio:    5.33 - 24 /12 /10
Words: 699
Class/Type: Story /Serious
Total Views: 1106
Average Vote:    No vote yet.
Bytes: 4319


Boy with a World of Charcoal.

With charcoals a whole world can be created.
A world for you, a world for me, and for you three.
A line only has to be smeared across the page to indicate the skyline.
No clouds on this page we will have.
Only curves for birds that fly too high,
and perhaps a circle for the sun, with the brilliance of a black dot.
There will be no rainbows,
for there is no color in this world of charcoal.

But that suits him just fine.
The dark water beneath the rocks suits him just as well.
It has no color he will argue if you ask, just texture.
But no one does.

"Water is very difficult to draw. All the curves, forms, patterns; they never seem to stop. They never cease to create more.."
Is what he may tell you if you ever crossed over to his side.

"It is too far."
"Leave him, he's just an imbicile."
"He's been sitting there for so long it doesn't even matter anymore."
"What a fool, wasting his time like that."
The crowd used to look at him with a questioning eye; some with scared eyes, but time has come and it has gone, and still he sits.
The crowd is not pleased; day after day.
It is the same they say.

They come walking their dogs after work, their children play in the sand.
They come holding hands with their lovers, they come to watch the sunrise.
Romantic it is.
Beautiful they say.
But occasionally,
"He is wasting his life away on those rocks! Look at him sitting around, what a fool."
someone may say after another quick glance to determine if the fool is still there.
And back home they go once more.

Come nightfall, come dawn, come afternoon sun, come twilight.

The fool is always there.
His body busy brushing, scrubbing, threading.

Water consumes all that is alive, but even it refuses to taint intself with the fool.
Let him sit there, it reasons.
And on he will go, never looking up, behind, around to see what is going on in the world.
Not a care, not a tear he will shed.
He is not careless.

Charcoal imprints deep enough to run into his blood, he continues.
A change is noticable in his posture.
He is not careless, no.
He sits.
Away from others, away from the world to which he has turned his back against.
He is hunched over.

"Could it be our fool is finally too exhuasted to continue sitting out there"
"Perhaps we can find him a local psyhiatrist, I'm sure the boy's got lots of screws that need some fixing."
They gather with their dogs, children and lovers all to watch the boy with anticipation, for when he musters up enough strenght and sense to finally head back to life.
"What is his name anyway?"
"I don't know, but I heard he was once a brilliant student."
"Really? I wonder how he got this way."
"I heard that he one day just walked out there and never looked back again."
"He never even replied to our shouts for him to come back! That rude boy!"
"You'd think he would show a little more respect for us."

The comotion died down to a crowd witnessing a miracle.
The fool began to move,
No! He bagan to shake,
to slip.
No! He was moving,
They saw.

Someone finally had enough courage to run across those rocks to grab the boy before he fell in all the way.

He loved water he would tell you if he could.
He loved it dearly and spent a vast amount of time trying to draw it in, even with blisters he sketched away.
He was tireless. He would not stop.
He loved it dearly he would tell you.

But there was no boy.

A potatoe sack was tugged by the waves below.
More hunched it became as the water pulled harder.

The potatoe sack was full of trash,
and out it all came tumbling-

Submitted on 2009-01-12 14:33:52     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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  Okay I stopped where i was reading for a quick second so that i could state something.

The reason I began to write poetry was for the fact that my family is very artistic in the sense of drawing and painting, but sadly it skipped my mom and her children T.T which I regret to no end. So I figured if i couldn't draw a picture (i couldn't draw straight if you gave me a ruler o.o;) i would paint a picture in words. And that's what your beginning lines remind me of and i just wanted to well share this oddly enough >.> yes moving on hahaha sorry about the ramble.

""Water is very difficult to draw. All the curves, forms, patterns; they never seem to stop. They never cease to create more.."
Is what he may tell you if you ever crossed over to his side."

this makes me think of a conversation i had earlier with someone who writes as well and he spoke of how shapes and texture shapes perception and that more go into those things than how color is being conveyed...i hope im making sense.

"Not a care, not a tear he will shed.
He is not careless. "

The meaning i took behind this simple sentence seemed profound to me and i just wanted to ask if i got it right.
The careless part would be if he shed the tear he would ruin his creation? haha sorry if that is not write but wow...

The ending kind of left me dazed and confused I'm sort of kinda maybe begging that you explain it to me o.o; this poem seems to hold a profound interest to many aspects. The whole feelings and emotions that are directed at things that people who do not understand why it's happening lash out in their ignorance to fill the hole of misunderstanding yes I'm going all crazy on you i believe but i think i discovered a master piece...


oh and btw i know i was horribly off but this is just my take on the piece ^_^
| Posted on 2009-01-25 00:00:00 | by nikita2u | [ Reply to This ]
  well i have no such comment that may be of a use other than your momentary enterainment, but here goes...

this makes me think of my thoughts. i feel like that boy standing b y the sea and it fills me with sensless paranoia watching it turn into an empty potatoe sack. maybe this is my mind state way of taking everything to be a prophecy but i love the sea. well i haven't been there since i was a child but i love those things that extend into forever. the way they build upon themselves is something of interest to me. the dialogue and almost prose almost poetry feel of the piece plays nice for me. it can be read two ways and with the end well it seems as though the people gathered around were the ones more watching the waves. was he ever real? i suppose its irrelevant and maybe the only pooint is to ponder.

hmm.......yeah somehow i think my thoughts are somehow relative. at least good for a chuckle or semi-smiled wtf i hope. peace be with you and laters
| Posted on 2009-01-19 00:00:00 | by cornonthekob | [ Reply to This ]
  you fooled me on this one until the end. A darn black gargage bag, Ha Ha. shame on you for dragging me down to the water to only smell a bag of rotten garbage. BUT,IT WORKED!
| Posted on 2009-01-13 00:00:00 | by realpoet | [ Reply to This ]

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