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Hopeless Wanderers


'This dream isn't feeling sweet, we're reeling through the midnight streets, I never felt more alone, it drives you crazy getting old.' 

Meet Tessa. A dreamer with a heart as wide as her smile and an obsession with capturing the moment. This heart of hers that is so big and warm is fraying at the sides, leaving her slightly lost. 

Now, meet Tyler. An introvert with a monotone soul and a secret he has hid from society. Determined to put colours in his black and white soul, longing to escape his dingy London apartment and learn how to dream, Tyler Monsoon is slightly lost in the literal sense after getting on a train with no clue as to where it was going.

The two couldn't be more different, except one thing: They are both wanderers, unintententionally and unbelievably, wanting something from their lives other than simply existing. Because sometimes, existing just isn't enough. 




Copyright Carlin Rose White 2015. Protected under copyright laws, plagiarism will result in immediate action and is not permitted. Always seek permission from the author. 



Her parents had always told her to do what made her happy.

After years of getting lost in supermarkets and busy town streets to take photographs,

And wandering off through fields alone with her camera,

She was going to study photography.

She didn't know whether this was what she wanted to do.

She was scared that it wouldn't work out.

Scared that in a matter of weeks she would be dropped off her course,

And back working on her father's farm.

But she loved capturing the moment through her camera lens.

It was positively the most beautiful, magical and mind-whirling concept to her.

Yet it was such a simple concept,

And she lived for simplicity.

Everything about her was simple.

She was simple.

She loved the smell of rain,

And being caught in a summer rainstorm,

Yet loathed it in the winter.

She loved the intoxicating smell of old books,

She read more than what was healthy,

Yet never dreamed of holding a book with her name on it.

She had a heavy heart,

Which she wore on her sleeve,

Waiting to give it away.

She spent her days with that boy,

Who she longed to kiss in the rain,

But never told him.

She accompanied him on many shopping trips,

To the camera store,

But never on dates with his many girlfriends.

She greeted each one with a smile,

And did her best to make conversation,

But inside,

She was dying.

Before she was accepted onto her course,

She plucked up all her courage,

To tell the boy how,

When he played love songs on his ukelele,

He made her little heart sing,

How his touch,

However brief,

Sent shivers down her spine without warning,

How he would make her laugh,

Until she could speak no more for laughing too much,

And how she found his tired voice,

Blaring out of her phone at 3am,

Still attractive.

And most of all,

As they sat under the trees in her father's orchard,

She told him she loved him.

But all he could do was sit and shake his head,

And recite to her what a thousand boys had before,

And then he left, as quickly as he came.

Tessa was alone with her books and her camera,

And the two hardly spoke anymore,

A frienship jeopradised,

And nothing left to say,

Because the silence spoke louder than words.

Until the day,

The news came about,

That he had a scholarship,

To that law school downtown.

And as the days flew by,

She watched from a distance his buzzing leaving party,

Reminding herself how she had spent hers with books,

Quickly came the day for goodbye.

He was leaving,

And so was she,

A little before him,

But he would still be gone anyway,

Because to her,

The old boy had already left,

And a stranger for a human in his place.

It rained the day she left,

Left her family, her collection of books and him,

It was her favourite type of rain,

But she felt no need to dance in it,

As there was no longer any music.

And as she approached the bus stop,

Ready to wait for the ninety-three,

Her ran up to her,

His ukelele and a pile of pictures in hand,

He sat down beside her,

And told her how he was foolish,

And stupid,

And a jerk,

And that he loved her,

As she loved him.

But all she could do was stare at him,

Through her dripping hair,

And recite to him what a thousand girls had before,

It wouldn't work anymore, she said,

It would be awkward.

She left him there as the ninety-three pulled up,

With his ukelele and photographs,

And wondered where all her dreams had gone,

When the old boy disappeared.



He was never told to do what made him happy.

He was told to be smart.

He tried to lose himself in anything possible,

And tried to become a dreamer,

Because that what was he heard people did. 

He wanted to dream,

But his mind was too complex,

A mental dictionary filling up all space,

Like some sort of memory blockage on a mobile phone.

Tyler Monsoon could not dream to save his life.

People like Tessa found this sad.

He told his parents he was happy, and that he didn’t dream,

And they were satisfied by the news that their son would never become a dreamer,

Because to them, only grades mattered.

To them, happiness and dreams were not values,

Two wonderful ways of living,

Or strong emotions felt from the bottom of someone’s captivatingly beautiful soul,

To his parents, happiness and dreaming combined were nothing.

And while Tyler could not feel this kind of dreamy happiness,

He could only believe that it didn’t exist too.

He tried to turn to art,

He filled sketchbooks and sketchbooks,

And let them pile up and up beside his bed.

It made Tyler happy to see this pile,

And he took pride in adding a completed sketchbook to it each week,

Until the day,

His father came into his room,

And saw the pile.

The last of his masterpieces Tyler saw were when they were ten stories beneath the flat,

Lying on the London pavement,

About to be trampled on by a thousand commuters.

Tyler never tried art again,

He never tried happiness or dreams,

He never tried anything.

He became a m o n o t o n e

And then the day came,

A month or so later,

When Tyler Monsoon finally lost it.

He burned all his textbooks,

Dropped his papers and watched them fall ten stories beneath the flat,

In hope they might find his sketchbooks.

He began to pack a rucksack,

He didn’t know where he was going,

Though had to assume it was nowhere.


As he shut his flat door behind him for possibly the last time ever,

This nowhere started to sound quite wonderful.

Heading for Nowhere


Her Professor never told her to do what made her happy,

Or how to be smart,

He told her to capture moments to get grades.

Capturing the moment had once been possibly the most beautiful, magical, mind-whirling concept to her,

Yet now,

It was different.


Such a simple concept turned into something so dark and complicated,

So much so that Tessa could no longer find any beauty.

She had been told to snap out of her little dream-world,

Or face losing everything she had worked for.

And while she wasn't prepared to do that, to lose everything,

Her newly fixed heart ripped a little at the sides,

Every time she tried to let go of a dream.

Stopping dreaming,

To her,

Was like losing her personality.

She would become a monotone,

Incapable of seeing captivating beauty in horrific ugliness,

Inept of seeking a small star to dream on in the darkest skies,

And most importantly,

Unable to imagine things too vivid and wonderful to feature in a book or film,

And this scared her.

Her latest assignment on her photography course was to travel to some chosen destinations and capture them,

Yet Tessa didn't know where to go.

Her favourite place was at home, with a book,

However her suggestion of this to the Professor was declined.

And so, there she sat,

On a seat decorated with awful seventies fabric,

On board a train headed for nowhere.

She quite liked the idea of not knowing where she was going until she got there,

It made the whole ordeal almost like an adventure,

One big,big adventure, just for her.

She had never dealt well with other people,

They were all so loud or so quiet,

Too pushy or indecisive,

Too judgemental or not judgemental enough to have opinions.

The only thing she enjoyed about people was observing them,

How they reacted to things and the annoying habitual things they carried out,

As though no one would notice.

But Tessa did.

Tessa noticed.

And while she sat there observing,

Immersing herself in more than just dreams for once,

She found herself smiling through the window on the crowded train,

At the boy with glasses and wild curly hair,

Running beside the train, going frantic as it started to pull away.

Maybe he was heading for nowhere, too.

And as the train stopped for a moment,

Tessa watched the boy climb on,

His rucksack half open as she noticed various belongings of his spread out across the platform.

She waited moments for the train to continue,

Yet the moments never came,

As she sat frozen,

As the boy pushed through the people and slid into a seat opposite her.

He avoided eye contact,

And so did she,

Yet as his stomach yearned for food,

She found herself pushing a cucumber sandwich towards him.

She continued to stare out of the window,

And so did he as he ate,

And she wondered what he was running away from,

To be heading for nowhere too.

The Girl with the Camera


He had started to think no one had ever taught him how to be happy because it was impossible,

Only achievable for those with no special talent,

A last resort for a hobby or skill.

Hours past while he and that girl with the camera sat on the tiny train,

And while these hours caught up with each other,

And night painted the sky as if an artist above had decided to turn the sky into a starry canvas,

Tyler decided that this trip to nowhere would allow him to lose himself in something.


He did not care what.

And while his monotone brain could not quite come to terms with this,

How he could immerse himself in something vast or wonderful,

There was a part of Tyler that believed that this could be possible.

It had to be.

The silence that filled the hours that passed lay thick and heavy,

Like thick strokes of a fat paintbrush,

Yet tinted with this curious kind of scared,

As if they were apprehensively waiting on something to happen, yet did not quite know why.

And while the wait dragged,

Tyler began to get more and more shifty,

Starting to question what he was waiting for.

And during this seemingly pointless wait,

Tyler realised that if he was not happy,

He must be desperately sad.

He wondered if the girl with the camera was really sad,

If she appeared to be a dreamer,

As the first few tears holding a kind of hurt Tyler had never felt before,

Tumbled down her exquisite plum cheeks.

And as they did this,

Tyler felt something drop within him,

Like a building block in his chest was falling to the pit of his stomach,

As he realised he was not homesick.

He had nothing to give the girl for comfort,

No story to bring her warmth or reassurance,

Except a sad little tale about a boy who was lost and didn’t think he would ever be found.

They past many, many towns that night,

Each alight with a buzz of a variety of cultures and societies,

Each different in their own twisted ways.

And gradually,

As the world outside got darker,

So did Tyler’s world inside.

He watched with both great suspicion and novelty at the captivating girl before him,

Her head pressed against the filthy window that protected them from the outside world,

Her eyes closed and the sound of her deep breathing muffled by the sound of the train trundling along the rusty tracks.

Outside was a world so vast and brilliant,

So colourful and wonderful,

Yet so magical and dark at the same time,

And Tyler worried deeply when he thought about how he could never appreciate it,

As minds that belong to monotones do not appreciate or recognise beauty.

He prepared himself for what lay ahead,

All the challenges,

And experiences,

As the train stopped to swap drivers and Tyler gathered his things,

Ready to see the world outside of London, how he hadn’t ever seen it before.

He contemplated waking the girl with the camera,

Perhaps she would get off the train with him and take pictures of the beautiful land before them,

And he could try and appreciate it.

Yet instead he left it,

And wondered if she would still be there when he got back.

When he re-entered the now quite empty train,

Disappointed at the fact the first sight of this ‘new world’ he was so desperate to see was a run-down motel crumbling on the platform,

The girl was sat up in her seat,


Yet still very silent.

Her camera was pressed up to her face,

Covering the most part of her eyes and eyebrows,

Attached to a long, worn, brown strap, which dangled down as the camera was raised.

To his surprise,

The camera was pointed at him,

And clicked away as a new shot was captured of him.


Tyler made his way to his seat,

And wondered what the girl saw in him to use him in something as delicate and treasured as a photograph.

Tyler had never felt treasured before.

She put the camera down and stared hard at him,

And as Tyler looked down at his shoes to avoid eye-contact,

He wondered how this girl ended up heading for nowhere when she could go so much further.

Light Up


She wondered if anyone had ever told the boy with the glasses to be happy,

If anyone had ever sat him down and told him to follow nothing but his dreams.

She would sometimes look at the reflection of his eyes in the window and would doubt all of that,

As when she looked at herself while she dreamed,

She would be able to see all the colours of her mind and soul dancing around her pupils like flames dancing round a bonfire,

And yet when she looked at him,

She could see no colours or shades of happiness and security;

Just nothingness.

She wondered if his soul was rather like that.

It had been two weeks in total spent on that train,

And for two weeks she had wondered that same thing,

About the same person.

Tyler had noticed the slight shift in the girls' expression as she pondered over this person,

Yet little did he know this person was him.

He would probably never know that.

Because monotones do not notice beauty thought by others.

And as each day passed as slowly as the next,

They sat and stared at each other the same way,

Saw the same seats in the train carriage,

Felt the same gradually more comfortable feeling when their shoes touched under the table,

Sent each other the same mental notes, asking questions that could never be answered,

And hoped the same things over and over.

She hadn't fixed herself yet.

He hadn't found himself yet.

They hadn't explored anything beautiful, or wonderful, or captivating, or magical,

They were just two very hurt and broken people with no sense of where they were going and why.

And while one of them found that exciting,

The other sat and worried and bit his nails and wondered if he would die in this train,

And the train drove on.

She hated being confined in this moving tin box,

While he adored the isolated feel of being trapped inside the train and tried to convince himself this was what safe and secure felt like,

And the train drove on.

They passed deserts and forests and derelict buildings and towns,

Stopped on various platforms that all the looked the same,

That all held feelings of relief and emotion and depression and excitement from the people that had walked on it,

Buried deep within the cracks scribed into the concrete,

Never to be seen, or heard,

But felt.

Tessa sensed these things in incredible tingling waves in her mind,

Every she stepped out onto a platform one place or another,

With no idea of whom these feelings were once possessed by,

Just that they existed.

She could only assume the boy with the glasses felt nothing,

While she,

The girl with the camera,

Felt everything.

Her current favourite dream was the one where she and the boy with the glasses finally got off the train for just a few hours,

But not to just stand and wait on the platform for the drivers to swap round,

For Tyler to awkwardly shuffle on his feet while she flicked through photographs on her camera while the process occurred,


In this dream-

They finally explored somewhere wonderful.

She would imagine continually the people they would see,

The rhythm of their native tongue,

The photographs she could take,

The intricately engraved footsteps on the paths on which they would walk,

Embracing the culture before them,

And the colours that would finally reach Tyler's eyes.

She didn't know a great deal about the meanings behind this dream,

Just that she really really wanted it to happen.


After weeks of wishing and hoping,

The day came when the dream started to play out like an interactive children's book.

It was no particular special day marked on calendars everywhere,

Yet a special day to be held in the hearts and minds of those who experienced it.

The two gathered their things as the train halted;


And with no eye contact,

They headed towards the exit of the carriage,

Where a small breeze surfed through.

Tyler stepped out of the train and stood for a moment.

He didn't know what this place was,

Only that it wasn't london.

He loved it.

The ground was coated with an orange sand that filled his trainers,

And the sky an unnatural violet shade,

And as he looked behind him to see where the girl with the camera had gone,

He saw that she hadn't moved positions from where she had first stepped off the train,

With her camera pressed up to her eyes and her finger resting on the button.


Picture two.

Tyler was picture two.

He felt that peculiar, unfamiliar, special feeling again.

She took the camera from her eyes and smiled, her eyes lighting up.

His eyes didn't light up;

But his heart did.



He tried to think of all the times he had been told not to strive to be happy,

And all the times he had followed the rule,

That to be successful,

He could not be happy.

He thought of all the nights he spent studying,

When all the other kids from school were chasing girls and drinking by railway lines,

And all the times when avoiding dreams, happiness, and art,

Were not just choices,

But orders,

That he could do nothing about.

And it was during these nights,

He would reach for his paintbrush,

Because he knew nothing else could ever help him,

And the school counsellor would never understand,

But art would,

Art would help him solve everything,

Even if he didn't know how.

There would come an hour during these nights,

When he would push his textbooks aside,

Lock them in his draws,

Tuck them back in his bag,

And he would mix the watercolour paints in his pallet,

In hope that the vibrant colours might meet his soul,

And maybe even his heart.

He liked the pale yellow the best,

It wasn't too harsh,

Or too weak,

And the colour itself,

It calmed his mind,

Replacing the colours he would never dream.

Until his sketchbooks got confiscated,

This was what kept him sane.

It was these nights that were by far his darkest.

But right there,

Trailing slowly through the orange sand,

With the girl with the camera by his side,

Hidden amongst millions in the world, breathing love and hate and hope into the atmoshphere,

Those dark nights were far from him.

He continued thinking about this as they stumbled on,

Relieved he was finally getting somewhere with his monotone thoughts,

Until he realised that the girl with the camera was no longer walking next to him,

And he was walking alone,


He had high hopes,

This was his new start,

His first proper chance at making it in the world,

And suddenly he felt like the scared, confused, boy, he was when he left.

Not a great deal had changed about him,

Since he had shut the door to his London flat behind him for the last time on that day,

But at least with the girl there,

He didn't feel quite so alone.

And yet there he was.

He observed the area he stood in,

Trying to find the train at it's stop,

Or maybe even the girl with the camera,

But only little shacks for houses,

And bonfires for ovens,

With sticks for childrens' toys,

And mud for water,

Met his gaze.

It is easy to think this moment was unsicnifigant,

But it really wasn't.

Because this was the moment that Tyler Monsoon realised,

There were bigger problems in the world at that exact moment,

Than his own.

Watching the poverty before him,

It dawned on Tyler,

That there were larger issues in the world,

Than having pushy parents,

Who only really wanted the best for him,

But could not express it in any other way.

Maybe because they were monotones too,

And no one ever taught them how to dream.

This was step one in Tyler's development as a person.

Step one.

So much further to go.

He walked on much slower than before,

Trying to take in everything,

But trying to ignore it all at the same time,

Trying to comprehend, how, what he saw before him,

Could exsist in a world,

That was so vast and brilliant.

He continued to walk,

Until he reached what looked like the center of town,

Where it's people were taking part in what looked like a tribal dance.

And they were so happy,

Even though they were so poor.

Colours exploded into the sky and around him,

Smiles and grins everywhere he looked,

Chants ringing in his ears.

And amongst these people,

Was the girl with the camera,

Dancing and singing,

With her camera swinging round her neck,

As her head swayed,

And her arms waved.

For the first time since laying his sights upon her,

The boy with the glasses,

Saw the girl with the camera,

Smile the best smile he had ever seen upon a person's face.

And for the first time,

Since leaving his London flat,

Tyler Monsoon allowed his lips to be shaped into a small smile.

It was nothing spectacular,

But it was a smile,

All the same.

His skin was the colour of the sky that afternoon,

A murky shade of white,

And his eyes,

They weren't lit up still,

But they had something in them,

A small twinkle,


I will carry on. 




Wide Eyes


She was starting to wonder whether she'd ever been truly happy,

If her childhood spent playing in the stream by her garden with the other famers' children,

And nights spent in the back of that boy's truck in the middle of a field,

Ever really satisfied her desire to do something with her life,

Or fulfilled the expectations that existed in her dreams.

Doubting never does anyone any good,

Her father had told her,

The man himself who told her to do what made her happy,

And yet her professor,

The man who had told her to capture moments to get grades,

Had told her that doubting was the only thing to make her work improve.

And now she was feeling as if,

The world was telling her she could do anything she wanted,

Yet whatever it was had to be good,

And she was so, so, confused.

In her hands was a small rose,

That a village girl had given her while they were there,

Just after the tribal dance,

And like her dreams,

It was fragile.

She brushed dirt from the ivory petals,



With her index finger.

The boy with the glasses was painting a work of art on the table,

With a broken paintbrush,

And no paint.

It was just pointless invisible lines that formed on the plastic,

That could never again be traced.

A bit like them,

Tessa thought solemnly,

As the train turned a corner and continued on. 

It was night time,

And Tessa could only help reminding herself,

How that boy would say that the stars came out especially for her.

And she would laugh,

And he would smirk,

Then check his phone for texts from a girlfriend.

And now he was at law school,

She wondered if he did the same thing,

With another girl,

A new Tessa.

It is human nature to develop sentimental attachments,

To memorabilia, to photographs, to people,

And while she knew she did not need a boy to define her,

She really, really, needed him,

For she felt attached to that boy,

The one who made her feel alive.


Something had shifted in the boy with the glasses and the wild curly hair,

And she could not quite put her finger on it.

His eyes were a lighter shade of blue,


Instead of navy,

And now he looked out of the glassed windows in curiosity,

Instead of regret.

They were small changes,

But they were something.

A newspaper peaked out of his rucksack,

The headline the opposite of merry,

And Tessa wondered how long it had been since she had read a newspaper.

She avoided them like the plague,

They were messengers of bad news,

That she simply did not want to hear.

It seemed as if everyone reaches an age in life when they start seeing things,

For how they really are. 

It's not when they're born,

Because that's when optimism and fake reality blinds them,

Usually up to their teenage years.


They start seeing things with wide eyes,

With nothing being hidden from them,

Because it no longer can be.

For Tessa, it was when she turned fourteen,

That she started to notice things.

She started to see how beautiful the wildflowers that grew in fields at the bottom of her garden were,

When they weren't just plaited in her hair,

She started to see how an old man's eyes can reflect so many memories,

How graceful and free the horses moved when galloping around their fields,

How a laugh or a smile could brighten a day.

She also started to notice the under-funded school she attended,

And the reason why her mother wouldn't let her go to the outskirts of town,

Was because it was so poor.

She started to read her father's newspaper,

The reports on war,

And murder,

And started to notice the people that hid in alleyways and backstreets,

Up to no good.

Life was not like how the books described,

And while this scared her,

It was the reality of it all that petrified her the most.

Maybe this was why she was so infatuated with dreams,

Because they didn't have to be real.

She was dissecting life bit by bit,

She wanted to know everything,

Yet at the same time,

She wanted to believe it was nothing,

It was just fiction.

She was just fiction.

But then again,

The world is a funny place when you're just fourteen.

And yet,

A few years on,

Tessa still liked to believe in this fiction theory,

For maybe if the world was fiction,

And she was too,

She and that boy from her hometown,

Could've ended up together like in the books,

But instead now,

He was fighting court cases and winning,

And she was trying not to battle against the world, and losing.

English Rain

9.05am, Home. 


They were back in London. 

It was bound to happen, 

He should've known, 

That the romanticised story of a boy who needed escape, 

Needed reality sometimes. 

He could not conjure up any theories of happiness that day, 

Nor could the girl with the camera, 

Who was stood next to him in the doorway of his old favourite restaurant, 

Twirling a loose delicate thread around her finger. 

Outside was English rain, 

And amid the sound of water hitting the pavement, 

You could almost hear the city singing. 

The people, 

And the bikes, 

And the music and the horns of taxis being pressed, 

Accompanied by the irritating hum of ringtones and alarms, 

Were all as loud and as vibrant as he remembered it. 

On his phone, 

Read a message from his parents, 

A congratulations,

On his scholarship to Cambridge University that had arrived in the post the day he left, 

Assuming that's where he had gone. 

Tyler felt quite rebellious. 

In the distance was a boy, 

About his age, 

With green eyes, 

And a suit, 

And Tyler thought he looked quite wonderful. 

In his hand was a ukelele, 

And in the other a pile of photographs, 

And Tyler couldn't help but notice, 

A spark of recognition in the girl with the camera's eyes as she too, 

Laid eyes on that boy in the suit, 

With the ukulele. 

It was a strange combination really, 

As if he was still trying to decide between the ukulele and the suit, 

Almost as if the ukulele carried a type of sentiment, 

And the suit, 

Something new. 

Tyler could feel his cheeks flush the colour of that boy's tie, 

As he slowly walked towards them, 

And something in the girl with the camera shifted, 

Suddenly she was tense, 

And her eyes darted about as if trying to find a place to settle. 

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her camera, 

As if that boy may try to take it away. 


He said it first. 

She took a breath. 


For once found it difficult to keep quiet, 

As the two exchanged pleasantries,

And he felt as if there should've been something more. 

A hug, 

Or a smile, 

But there was nothing. 

That was how people were meant to greet each other, wasn't it? 

They were acting like strangers, 

And it was weird Tyler thought, 

How while she was hesitant to speak, 

The girl with the camera in all her tenderness and delicacy, 

Kept her composure and spoke as clearly, 

As if she was giving evidence in a court. 

Tyler kept his eye on that boy, 

Scared for both himself and the girl with the camera,

Suspicious and both enthralled by the boy with the ukulele and the photographs. 

Tyler listened as that boy spoke, 

Hanging onto his every word, 

While the girl with the camera answered in turn, 

Her soft words echoing down the street. 

And Tyler observed, 

As that that boy, 

Asked her if she had anyone yet, 

And she said, 

Actually I'm travelling the world, 

I don't have time, 

And he said, 

What about the course, 

And she replied, 

It is the course. 

She often dreamt of saying these things, 

However never quite managed to say them, 

And now that she had, 

She too, 

Felt quite rebellious, 

In a funny sort of way. 

Camden Town, 2.15pm. 

Her words were the sort people hold onto, 

Tyler thought, 

So carefully chosen, 

With little pauses between some of them, 

As if she was trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle, 

Hesitantly laying each piece down one by one, 

Trying to embrace the beauty before her, 

Yet trying to comprehend it at the same time. 

She was, 

He decided, 

A masterpiece, 

One that he could fix perfectly, 

If he had the heart for it. 

It wasn't as if he was heartless, 


Don't believe that, 

He wasn't sure if it was even his fault, 


Since the age of nine, 

Girls were just friends, 

And it would remain that way for the rest of his life. 

And please know that when I say 'it,'

I mean she, 

For he didn't dream of sweeping a lovely bride off her feet under a floral archway, 

But a lovely groom, 

One with dark hair and brown eyes, 

With a love for theatre and the arts, 

Or Pokemon and Football. 



Would sit still long enough for Tyler to be able to paint him, 

To be able to mark out with delicate pencil lines, 

His sharp jawline, 

And the little tattoos inked across his body. 

And they would spend hours in art galleries, 

Admiring the paintings and the sculptures, 

And later, 

In the cafe, 

Quietly scribbling away in their notebooks, 

Not needing words to appreciate one another's company. 

He would allow Tyler his art time, 

And treasure every single sketchbook, 

And treat each one as a valuable artefact, 

Inside a museum made, 

For beautiful and curious things. 

And they would walk hand in hand in the middle of the street, 

And no one would say anything or even stare, 

Because in this world, 

Ignorance was considered a sin, 

And the word 'love,' associated with every kind possible. 

But it was a far away world, 


Back in London, 

Back in reality, 

Sheltered beneath a market stall this time, 

Tyler Monsoon realised he did have a dream. 

But society had made up its mind, 

And Tyler just had to keep trying, 

You see, 

He was determined to put colour, 

In his monotone soul.