The boy closed his eyes, and wished for the world to leave.
He retreated to that solitary place where he fulfilled his dreams.
The ever-lasting fiction is his head, the powerful reverie which kept him on his feet.

He shunned the hell outside, he begged for it to go away.
Inattentive he was with a thirst for knowledge, but it all seemed too late.
So the boy again closed his eyes, and wished for a brighter day.
A day where his fictions would burst into reality, and cleanse his self he'd come to hate.


The boy was no boy now, but the others still poked and played.
They laughed at the one who was different than them all, and he buried his grave.
And as the old man stared into death with regret and envy of those honest knaves,
he wondered what he could've done if he only tried to play.