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Stiff

I did not write this poem. This was written by a kid who was (if I recall correctly) in 12th grade who committed suicide right before graduation. This was presumably his last poem. It is untitled in its original form, but I call it "Stiff". It is one of the most depressing, well-written, memorable poems I've ever read, and thought it belonged here.

----

He always wanted to explain things
But no one cared.
So he drew.
Sometimes he would draw and it wasn’t anything.
He wanted to carve it in stone or write it in the sky
And it would be only him and the sky and the things inside him that needed saying.
And it was after that he drew the picture.
He kept it under his pillow and
	Would let no one see it.
And he would look at it every night
	And think about it.
And when it was dark, and his eyes were closed,
He could still see it.
And it was all of him.
And he loved it.
When he started school he brought it with him.
Not to show anyone, just to have with him like a friend.
It was funny about school.
He sat in a square brown desk.
Like all other square, brown desks.
And he thought it should be red.
And his room was a square, brown room
Like all the other rooms.
And it was tight and close.
And stiff.
He hated to hold the pencil and chalk.
With his arm stiff and his feet flat on the floor.
Stiff,
With the teacher watching and watching.
She told him to wear a tie like all the other boys.
He said he didn’t like them.
And she said it didn’t matter!
After that they drew.
And he drew all yellow and it was the way he felt about morning.
And it was beautiful.
The teacher came and smiled at him.
“What’s this?” she said. “Why don’t you draw something like Ken’s drawing?
	Isn’t that beautiful?”
After that his mother bought him a tie.
And he always drew airplanes and rocket ships like everyone else.
And he threw the old picture away.
And when he lay alone looking at the sky,
It was big and blue and all of everything,
But he wasn’t anymore.
He was square inside.
And brown.
And his hands were stiff.
And he was like everyone else.
And the things inside him that needed saying didn’t need it anymore.
It had stopped pushing.
It was crushed.
Stiff.
Like everyone else. 

Written by: Unknown
19 May 2008

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