monologue for teens

A Book and Pencil

On stage is a boy holding a weathered book and a pencil that is almost finished. He is sitting down with his legs crossed and is dressed in rag-like clothing.

All I have is this book and this pencil. I mean it. That’s all I have. Well I lie, I have these clothes too but they aren’t much anyway. Look for yourself! Holes everywhere. Much like my life… Missing pieces, ripped edges, filthy marks… It’s quite funny actually that all I have is this book and pencil. (He chuckles.) I can’t write. Or read. Or count very high. But that’s me. I can draw though. Look here! (Standing. He shows the audience a picture he drew – it’s a simple stick family) That’s what I imagine my family looked like. (Pause. He seems a little sad by mentioning family.)

When I said this is all I have I meant it. I have nobody. My parents died when I was still a baby. I have no brothers and sisters – well none that I know of at least. I was raised by an old lady, she had a face like my clothes. That’s all I remember about her – I never knew her name. She left when I was seven. She went to the clinic – she’ll be back. I’ve been on my own since. It’s always been natural for me to find food for myself. I manage. I think I should be bigger by now though… I’m sixteen. I think I’m sixteen at least. When I said that old lady left when I was seven, well that’s how old I think I was. I don’t actually know.

I don’t count days very well… I just draw a picture for every day that I don’t get hurt by them… I haven’t drawn many pictures. When I say ‘them’ I mean the guys who sleep under the bridge. They hurt me whenever they see me with money. And they take the money to buy this green stuff and smoke it. It smells horrible. Sometimes they sniff this white sand. But that’s not often. I just try avoid them, but they always find me. If I have something to give them, I know I won’t be hurt that much.

They also call me names. They tell me I’m worthless scum who can’t even read. But I know that I’m not worthless. Just because I can’t read or write or count properly doesn’t mean I can’t think. I’m good at thinking. I think all day about my parents. I know they loved me. Just like the old lady with the dirty face. (Pause. The emotion shifts to very sad.) I lied when I said that all I remember is her face… I also remember she used to hug me and I felt warm. I want to feel warm again… Why did she have to leave? I want her back. She’ll stop them beating me. She still hasn’t come back from the clinic. Maybe she’s waiting for me there… Or maybe she’s, she’s… (Pause at the realisation she is probably dead.) No! (He cries. He then rips out the page of his family from his book and crumples it up in anger, frustration and sheer desperation.) Why?

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Apple Blossom

“But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.”

The Song of Wandering Aengus, W. B. Yeats

The way you looked at me the first time our eyes met. We both knew it was something more. Eyes can says a thousand things in a single second. It felt right. They way you looked at me made me feel special… Maybe that’s why I loved you so much… People always look at me with longing, or lust really. You looked at me differently, you saw deeper… You looked beyond my face. You looked straight into my soul.

You loved me selflessly, and you promised that you’d give everything up in the world if you had to just to keep me. (Pause to recollect.) And you did. You gave your life to save mine… You were the one who completed me, you completed me in my incomplete world. It’s hard when you’re a model and your world is built on superficiality. You don’t know who your true friends are or who is there using you as a beautiful accessory. At least with you I felt real.

You were so secure in yourself, that was so attractive to me. You were the one beating the insecurities out of me. (Slight laugh.) Weird how life works like that. Maybe the priceless oil paintings are painted by the most damaged hands.

I can tell you one thing… They’ll remember you forever, and that’s your dream! A legacy, the legacy you worked so hard towards. So whenever I feel lonely I’ll come to this apple tree and I’ll remember this day, the day I scattered your ashes… I’ll remember our first date under this tree where we shared our first kiss and made love for the first time… Where we both felt happiest. And when the red apples are ripe I’ll remember your smile. I’ll remember I’m your apple blossom and you’re my red apple. Because I’m the beauty and you’re the substance.