I went to art school

in the hope my talent

would grow to be classed

as just that. 

I found too many artists

in every room I 

ran to; all they did 

was scream, apparently that

helped heal the creative 

block. The screaming was only

a small factor, I slept 

quite well at night,

with them there, screaming. 

I left art school

one year earlier than most;

I couldn’t paint, I was

classed as too reserved to

make a difference. 

I left, not putting up a

fight, art school had

been good to me,

though time had not. 

Sat, I was sat

in the courtyard of

the school,

seventeen and shivering,

picking up boxes,

met with my fathers disappointed eye;

we drove in silence,

my fathers face,

my face

and the distant screams

following us out of the

car park. 


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