The Life in Rhymes of an Angsty Teenager

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Concrete Angel


I curse that big yellow bus, as it stops at the end of my driveway five times a week.

It has become direct transportation to the hell in which I do not seek.

And yet I'm forced to drag myself out of my supportive bed, when I'd rather hide under the covers.

And five times a week on the way to school, I get this feeling like no other.

I want to make myself sick so I can stay home.

Maybe if I do it at school, I'll be left alone.

Who am I kidding? That will only feed more fuel to the fire.

The sight of my physical illness will just make their sick minds more inspired.

I have to put thought into my outfits every day, and it's not for the sake of style.

But instead, to hide the wounded lines on my wrists from the bullies, and to keep my parents in denial.

If those kids saw the cuts, they would shame me with their words; metaphorically creating similar incisions in my brain.

And start planting ideas like little poisonous seeds in my mind, making me believe the things they claim.

What they don't know is that their hurtful words have pushed me to imagine my own suicide many times.

And if they could see my marked up wrists, I wonder if they could read between the lines.

That I am just a victim, a constant pathetic cry for help.

And I don't deserve anyone's sympathy, at least that's what the bullies have made me convince myself.

I wonder if anyone would care or worry about me if I went through with my imagined attempts and actually tried?

I wonder if anyone would miss me, or come to my funeral if I died?

Because these evil people at school sure know how to make me believe that I'm not wanted or loved.

Some say that love is louder, but what the bullies say is hard to rise above.

It's even harder to keep getting up when I'm actually getting kicked, punched and pushed to the ground.

And they all surround me like starved carrion vultures, as they spit on me while I'm being held down.

Well guess what? Today, I'm not getting out of bed; I refuse to go to school.

I'm not learning anything anyways, except how to look uncool.

I've learned how not to be popular; how to be treated like a fool, a dunce, a jest.

And even though it's my school's motto, one thing I've never learned is respect.

How can I be expected to give something in which I've never had the blessing to take?

It's hard to stay true to who you are when everyone you're surrounded by is fake.

Sometimes even the friends you think you have turn their backs.

And just for the hope of fitting in and not being like you, they also laugh.

How am I supposed to stay positive if I have no one to reassure me?

My parents try, and teachers fail to take me under their safe-wings in an attempt to cure me.

Cure me of this illness, this status of being weak and beyond the magic tricks of help.

Maybe I'll grow my own wings, and become an angel myself.

Yes, that's what I think I will do; sacrifice my shame-ridden, broken body.

I'll protect and become guardian of others who go through what I did, and make sure they become somebody.

Because unless I put my faith in death and rebirth into divine intervention, I don't think I have any hope of escaping this hell.

And after I am reduced to ashes, my tale will belong to other victims to tell.

I wonder if anyone will attend my funeral, or if my story will make a splash on newspapers and TV.

I'll be in the heavens watching my name show up in headlines; I'll become popular, just wait and see.

I will rise above the words and shame, in a way that no one else has before.

And maybe I'll become something that the bullies will admire and adore.

As I look down at the world, I still curse that big yellow bus as it passes by my driveway five times a week.

It has become a reminder of the hell I once went through, to reach the divinity I now see.

The news down on earth is that I'm the latest concrete angel, a popular topic these days.

And that kids like me have become inspired by my story, and know they are only victims as a phase.

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