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Dear Bullies,
Why?
Why is it fun?
To watch me stand in sun,
Pour your drink on me,
And laugh as I weep?
Why?
Why is it fun?
To laugh at my face,
Say it's a disgrace,
To all of my mates,
And the human race?
Why?
Why is it fun?
To spread rumours,
Haven't you satisfied your humour?
I am sick of it,
Bit by bit,
I am disappearing as mist.
When?
When will you leave me?
Until I hang myself,
For your glee?
Or,
Until they find my body,
Buried in camp,
Still damp,
With blood stains,
from your blades?
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YOU ARE READING
•єηтαηgℓє∂ ιη ωσя∂ѕ•
Poetryᴀ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ᴍʏ ᴘᴏᴇᴍs. ©-cuddlee- ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ's ᴀ ɢɪʀʟ ᴡʜᴏ sᴍɪʟᴇs ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ᴛᴏ sʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ sʜᴇ ɪs ғɪɴᴇ. ᴀ ʙᴏʏ ᴡʜᴏ sᴜʀʀᴏᴜɴᴅs ʜɪᴍsᴇʟғ ᴡɪᴛʜ ғʀɪᴇɴᴅs ᴡɪsʜᴇs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜɪs ʟɪғᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴇɴᴅ. Ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ᴡʜᴏ sᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇʏ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴋɴᴇᴡ, ...
