Dip this paint brush,

in a cup of forged lives,

a vivid hue he cannot see,

still he paints, remains,

this is all he will ever be;

a puppeteer's plaything,

a perfectly innocent,

perfectly snipped string,

far too short to be tied into the rest of the world.

So he falls,

and forgets,

and denies,

the truth,

which was curled,

mangled,

and broken apart,

just for him

(or rather,

for his father).

So he worked out a perfect equation,

believing that he,

on almost a whim,

could repair the world believed to be so broken,

that he could even,

make it better,

than it ever was.

(And he would've succeeded,

had it not been,

that his world,

was made of train sets,

paper airplanes,

building blocks,

and was ever-so-incorrect.

So he would attempt to craft perfection,

out of wood,

and plastic,

and pretend,

and he would attempt to fix himself,

by fixing his make-believe world.)

He never knew them,

half as well as he ever thought he did.

He never saw them,

at all.

"But maybe,"

he'd think,

"I can learn,

to understand them,

all of them."

Shame,

a string cut so short can never be tied,

and he too lies to himself now,

his painting forever left,

incomplete.