||All problems are illusions of the mind.||

He walked with his head low,

Twisting inside him was sorrow.

They did it again.

Called him names,

Called him lame.

Called him the 'awkward artist.'

He couldn't meet their eyes,

He felt like he would crack with their jibes.

He was afraid of the crowd,

The ones which were loud.

With them he felt too less space,

Felt like all the ways,

Were turning to cul-de-sacs,

Dead end, no more.

He didn't talk much,

Thought he was okay, as such.

But he screamed, shouted.

All he doubted.

He hated people caring.

Too little space,

The walls were closing on him.

And he wanted to run,

Didn't want to be shunned.

But they closed just at the end,

And he was left for himself to fend.

Because he didn't know how to break the grey walls,

He just painted it wearing his overalls.

"If you meet walls you can't break, or cross over or run around it,

Just pick up your paintbrush and paints and paint it."