He was never going to win
But he would still pretend to himself
A bashful albeit over-confident twenty-three year-old
With acres of gusto
An imagination that could run away with itself, from itself, time and time again
Create that all too intelligent story so as to reap whatever glories may come his way
A relatively humdrum existence ’til such time as the powers that be decide to add this particular boy to their list of duties
He always dressed the part, with his art in his hand, right down deep, deep, deep inside of his heart
Brylcreem gel fastening his lengthened hair for awhile, shy blonde locks that turned a few bright-eyed girls peppered in frocks
Stole away their smile
A quick prayer to the high-heavens that this would, in fact, turn out to be his time to shine
Pulitzer Prize significance, in a roundabout instance
Finally, resolutely
Perhaps, he figured, this to have always been his sole duty
Or maybe he just wasn’t that talented, a baby when it came to the matter of his chosen art
Crying and bawling, toys all too haphazardly placing themselves at the foot of his cart

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