Isn't Danilo a great young writer!

Ignorant man

By Danilo, 11

I sit alone,
It seems so dark,
I'm wishing the truth was stark,
What is this feeling inside me?

I am everything and anything. A swirling void of thought, spinning endlessly, so used, they are like a piece of glass smoothed over by the seas delicate touch. I only vaguely remember the sea, a big thing, wearing a different colour every day. Raging temper though, the big fellow had. I can't remember where I recognise the sea from. I don't even know where the word came from. I have no memory apart from these grubby things that surround me, the shadows call them walls. The shadows call me Maskie. They say my mother and father dumped me here. 'That's not true,' I shout, even though I'm not too sure. After all to me mother and father don't mean anything; I don't know what they are. I only partly understand the language that I speak. I am ignorant of myself. I sit at the 'wall', scraping poems of who I am? or what am I? All day, every day for the whole of my existence, well, I'm not sure I even exist, as Maskie.

One day the shadows caught me scraping a poem on the wall. They slithered along the floor, after seeping in through a hole in the wall the pure, cold, ruthless hate pouring into my body. They tortured me that day, just by ripping things out of my head that should have remained deep inside the endless pit of my confusion.

Yes, which is just what I am, an endless pit of confusion. That is the real truth, however harsh it may be. That is what the shadows do, sleep beside you, at the time the bulb above me goes out, and whisper horrible gasps of sadness into you. They make you a non-existent scrap, a number in their limp lives, a statistic. I would tell you what the shadows are like but that is just it, I am no more aware of what they are like, than I am aware of who Maskie really is.

I see them,
I see them pour in,
I see the inevitability,
Of shutting off the thing behind the mask,
The mask of not knowing,
That restricts me from escaping,
I am caged,
Tied,
By ropes of ignorance.
I am not sure of the convoluted truth.
I only know four of the white walls surrounding me.

What do these words mean?
May I ask, where did they come from?
The shadows. I cannot be sure where they came from.
Me. I cannot be sure where I came from.
The shadows. They say there's a way out.
Me. I do not know the way out.
It is a sin, being stuck in the things that circulate inside you.
I have no recollection of feeling. I only know the word, it is just a faint tint of a past, broken memory that I cannot remember very well. I do not know what anything is, not even myself.
I live but I do not live.
I know but then again I do not know.

The shadows make my life so horribly repetitive. My life is like a piece of blank paper. My blank paper has been stained with the blood-shed of ignorance. Knowing nothing is better than not knowing. If you know my justification for saying that you will agree.

The shadows,
They send hate shuddering through whatever is behind my mask until even if what's past these walls is blackness, revolving endlessly in a loop with no beginning or end, is better than being with them.
(May 2006)

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My angel

By Danilo, 11

I never saw her, she was just there, on a scrap of yellowish paper all tattered and worn.
She was in other places too, places closer to my heart than any piece of paper can get to my damaged eyes underneath a pair of dark glasses.
I can just imagine her as I sit by the warm soothing fire.
Eyes like the calm blue ocean, eyes that conceal all the wisdom and magic in the world, her hair, like her mother's, is the colour of copper, it flaps behind her in the chill wind passing through the room in her wake.

She's speaking to me, but I can't hear what she's saying.
I can smell a heavenly perfume.
I can hear wings beating, bells ringing an angel's singing.
I feel myself in her arms being lifted up.
Suddenly I can
I can see.
(May 2006)

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They don't know

By Danilo, 11

They don't know,
they keep me awake at night crying.

They don't know,
the effect they have on my life.

They just want their kicks,
they play their horrible tricks on nature,
they don't grasp how much they mix me up.

They don't know,
that what they say to me,
is worse than any punch they can throw.

They just want their kicks,
they play their horrible tricks on nature,
they don't grasp how much they mix me up.

They don't know,
that what they do is wrong,
they think it makes the world better.

They just want their kicks,
they play their horrible tricks on nature,
they don't grasp how much they mix me up.

They don't know
me as a person,
they just tag me by my colour,
because I look different

and that's the worst bit of all.
(May 2006)

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