A gallery of accomplishment is on display:

The boy sits still, waiting

On someone to see his good work

People look, and pay their compliments,

But no one sees that the words on the page,

And the orchestrated sounds

And the explosions of color

Are not just products of curiousity and intelligence,

But extensions of his own spirit.

 

He waits, watches, and wonders

“Is this who I want to be?

Am I waiting for someone to see me,

Or am I waiting on my own revelation?”

He banishes the questions plaguing his mind

And sleeps, hoping the next day will hold answers.

 

In his dream, someone has found him

They recognize his talent, but more importantly

They see his blood in the ink

His heart in the music

His vision in the paint

And not only do they see him,

But he sees them as well.

 

The boy wakes up again, and watches the people go by.

Still not sure what he wants to be,

But he’s not simply undecided

He’s unlimited,

So he waits

For someone to see his good work.