blame it on

a piss poor attitude

the teacher reaches in

to crush the child with words

the child has grown on weeds

he does not take it lying down


you will not make me do anything

command me, break my will

sent to linger outside headmasters room

unafraid what can they do

that has not already been done?

when you can no longer be threatened

see what you will become

the child became a vandal

he thought of the original tribes

in black clothes with skulls and bones

impossibly tall leaping from marauding boats

their names inked in time

he was proud to be called such names

better than cringing in the corner defiled

let them label him

let them call him trouble

whisper behind his back he will amount to


he has already been nothing

he has always ceased to exist

the lashes on his back…

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