There’s a boy in the grass,
and the mud (when it rains)
He’s got dirt on his ass,
tattered jeans full of stains,
and a smile on his face
which his father adores,
which his mother, in grace
and in love, just ignores.

There’s a stone in his hand,
which he carefully washed,
cleaning dirt, mud, and sand,
plus that bug that he squashed,
from the face of his rock,
which he chose for its shine
and its shimmering face,
and he calls this rock “Mine.”

There’s a call from the door
that his food is prepared;
but to eat is a chore,
when Outside is compared.
There’s no sense of release,
he’s not free, locked inside.
Out here he could find peace,
could relax; he could hide.

There’s a truth in this dream,
thinks the boy to himself.
Outside holds self-esteem;
he imagines a shelf,
with his rock on one side,
self-esteem just above,
hope sits high, next to love.

There’s a bump in the night,
flashing lights from within,
the boy flicks off his light,
and forgets where he’s been.
He goes down to his meal,
knowing he’d soon be fed,
and he smiles, full of zeal;
Outside’s just in his head.


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