I'm sprawled on the bed,
Blanket is thrown aside on the floor,
My half closed eyes are fixed on the blank ceiling,
Hesitating to move a muscle,
My inner child is hurt.

I used to write from my heart,
That heart is now hollow like a vacuum,
My soul that filled white papers with drawings,
Shuttered to sharp pieces like the glass on the concrete,
Was this world too harsh for the kid inside of me?
My inner child is bleeding.

I'm no longer eager to face tomorrow,
Another day without my childhood creativity,
I have nothing else to offer human beings or myself,
But my long passion for drawing and writing
My inner child is crying.

I'm carried away in a stream of real life,
Upgrading my intelligence by going to school,
Entertaining myself with video games and television,
In the process barely keeping in touch with the youngster inside of me,
Will he ever forgive me for my ignorance?
My inner child is dying in silence.

David Grigorian is an artist who lives in Arvada.