Sticks and stones CAN break bones,
and their words, would make me weep.
Bruises on my skin would show,
the scars inside, unseen, ran deep.
A target on my back it seemed,
some girls my age would torment me
every day I walked to school, why?
It was a mystery.
Notebooks ripped right from my hands,
homework flying, left behind.
Books I carried, torn to shreds,
these monstrous girls were so unkind.
My hair was pulled, I was pushed,
it caused hate to cloud my heart.
To this day, I curse them still,
hate's stayed with me, from the start.
Tried not to cry, but tears still came,
it only served to fuel their ire.
Ramping up, to cause more pain,
that was, I guess, their great desire.
I was changed from those days on,
being bullied cut so deep.
Five decades have passed since then,
sometimes I dream of it, in sleep.
I wish I could go back in time,
to ask them all, why they picked me.
Left behind with bitterness,
and pain poured out in poetry.
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