Poem #2

Ryan McGuinness

As the crayon scrapes against the paper,

Images are born.

Images which flow freely in minds like mine,

However no more in the dreams of my parents.

Colors, shapes, and sizes galore; a story

To a child; yet nothing more then just ordinary shades of blue and green-

To my parents.

A game emerges from the most fragmented concept my friends

Can conceive.

Concepts that my parents can no longer formulate in their,

Jaded- minds.

Enslaved to the very world they so longed to “grow up” to;

The purpose rolls silently and undetected over their heads-

Unconcerned with why heaving pebbles at trees and keeping score is fun;

But more concerned with what a waste of time.

But its no waste; not there on our own playing field.

These insignificant instances of creation,

Lost to the old,

But practiced by the young,

Show how much time can take away.

Stripped of imagination; but much more than that-

Its an appreciation.

It’s the answer to all of those questions parents ask-

Why? What’s the point?

The answer is entirely internal.

Birthed from our minds rise these pictures, drawings, games, and plans.

Age has taken this ability away from my parents- but not yet

From me.