Preschool Program at The Baldwin School of Puerto Rico

2018 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards

Congratulations to 10th Grader, Gabriel Comas! He is the recipient of two 2018 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards for his poetry! The Gold Key for his poem, “It Is Time”; and the Silver Key for his poem, “The Beauty of Literature”. More than 346,000 works were submitted to the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards this year. Gabriel’s work has been selected as some of the most outstanding work from our region. Read Gabriel's poems below!

It is Time

by Gabriel Comas


It is omniscient and all powerful

Beautiful dangerous and wonderful.

Organized order and chaotic nonsense

A truly undeniable and distinguished presence.

It is lost due to our lack of awareness

As it excitedly plots its vengeance

In ways we never knew.

A compulsive liar whose every word is true.


It is the only reliable witness.


It is infinite, never ending

And yet on it our lives depending.

A dot in a line, a needle in a haystack

And yet we waste the luxury we will never get back.

No quality does it lack that it does not hide behind its mask.


It is a cancer growing beneath our skin.

A creature to which none is akin.

An immortal who does not get punished for its sins.

Oblivious to the dystopian reality of the world it lives in.


It is perfect, flawless.


Yes it is something to fear,

Yes it is something to love.

It is a lover whispering in your ear.

A god watching from above.

It is a friend to hold dear,

An anomaly impossible to solve.


It is a criminal that has committed no crime,

A scapegoat we can’t help but blame.

I have it but it is not mine,

And ignorant men have given it a name,

It is time.



The Beauty of Literature

by Gabriel Comas


The familiar weight of lead and wood settled in my hand

as I stared into the blank patient face.

It was waiting for me.

Waiting for me to tattoo its pale and fragile skin,

To transform it into the home of another world,

A world where my problems don’t exist,

A world created by symbols that would otherwise mean nothing.


And so I began.

The gray needle piercing its surface,

a darkness consuming the light.

It did not scream or flinch or resist.

It let me work in peace.

And work I did.


I worked swiftly but carefully,

as the smallest amount of pressure could break it,

revealing what was on the other side:

an emptiness equal to the void in my heart.

A void I could not escape,

except for the few blissful minutes,

in which I let my hand scar that innocent white face.


That is the beauty of literature.