A poem from school.

The dark forest chills to the bone.
As the boy finds himself cold, and alone.
And though he hasn’t spoken for years,
He has never been the outcast of his peers.
And though he sits alone in this Earth
He still strains to become of some worth.
He is not a sad child.
Though he can be seen as mild.
But when the door opens,
The faucet leaks.
And out pours the years he spent alone.
And all secrets, become known.
This one soul becomes important to the boy.
Who is dying to be seen as more than a mere toy.
In his own mind, he sits atop a throne.
A place to forget the area around him.
And through the silence,
The boy contemplates defiance.
Because the door has yet to be opened,
And the faucet, has yet to pour.

Author's Note

This peice is interesting, because on the bottom of the copy, I printed the name "Thomas Abernathy" Now, I was supposed to find a poem that discribes me, and instead, I wrote my own. And I can't wait till my teacher asks who it's writen by so I can exclaim "WHY THE GREAT POET OF OUR DAY! THOMAS ABERNATHY!" No, I'm kidding, I wont say that, but, it will be the first time this name has shrouded me so that no one will know I've written it. Should be a proud moment for me. Can't wait.