She grabbed her faux leather messenger bag,
threw in 3 old band t-shirts, 3 pairs of underwear,
2 bras and a couple pairs of ripped skinny jeans, her Polaroid camera to take photographs of where she goes, a book, a journal to document her thoughts, a sketch pad, a package of Marlboro Red 100's, a lighter,  her iPod and some toiletries.  She didn't say anything, she just out and left. No note, no warning, nothing but her mess of a room.  She smiled at her room, her dream catcher, her poster-strewn walls, all of it.
And she slipped out of her window.  'Goodbye,' She thought to herself and started walking.  But what she didn't know was she had
just left her life and started a brand new one.  She was walking to the edge of oblivion.  She was shooting herself straight off a cliff,
off of the safety under her roof, the safety of her bed, the safety of everything she left behind.  All she had was that bag.  17 items. That was her life. 17 items to keep her safe, 17 items to live on for the rest of her time.  For the 3 years until she was 18.  Until she could show her face in public again until she could be seen.  But until then, she was alone.  She sparked her lighter and lit up a cigarette.  All alone with her bag and a package of cigarettes. She sat down on the curb by the bus stop and began to draw.  And that was that.  She was lost in her mind. Her mind had run farther than she had. Because after all,
we're
               all
                              mad
                           ­                       here..

dear paper..
don't you ever think?
it's not easy as I draw a line or dot
it's more complicated than coil of rope
I even can't sketch it
but I note word by word
it's all my dream

It was February 6th, the boy could taste the wood in his teeth

Had a bad habit, of a pencil, and biting on it

It was history class, in boredom the boy could pass

A blank page, for a bored mind like his in its own cage

The page screaming, for him to fulfill it with a drawing

A rock and a girl,
Seemingly in her own world

The boy had drawn a stranger, and although he had made her

And she had come from his thoughts, her, he didn't know lots of

It was interesting, he had made a character, perhaps story teller

Couldn't tell what she was thinkin', or who she was even

It was as if this image he'd made, had its own thoughts that would fade

Just like the rock, and the girl

Both drawn in pencil, would eventually fade leaving a mere sample

The page that was once empty, was fulfilled simply,

With the vision of a portrait, that by looking at it, it stood still

Yet anyone who interpret it carries,  their own series of stories

However, to the boy she looked  quite sad, maybe because he has what she never had

The ability of speaking, breathing, living, after all she is just a drawing

Maybe she seats on the rock with thoughts that are existential, as she realizes she is drawn in pencil