There was this boy I knew,
with messy brown hair and
mesmerizing pale blue eyes.

He held some sort of sorrow
that no one could decipher.
The blue eyed boy seldom spoke
and when he did, it was about escaping.

‘What could a fourteen year old boy -
who came to every single class
but sat in a corner with his book closed
- know about escaping?’ I thought.

It was then I realize:
he wasn’t an escapist; he was a dreamer.

W.H.Y~