"What happened to the bully,
to turn him that way?
What is he repressing inside,
ignoring,
blaming himself for,
and taking it out on others?
Whats going on inside that head of his?
Did something happen as a child?
Is something going on now?"

These are the things I think,
when they push me down the stairs,
into the lockers,
or trip me in the halls.
I'm selflessly thinking about them,
while they're torturing  me.

Why are they calling me ****?
Are they secretly gay themselves,
and too ashamed to come out,
and they're jealous of my bravery,
to walk down the hall hand in hand,
with the girl I love?
Is that whats going on?

Because not all that long ago,
I was in their shoes.
I was poking fun at the girl who didn't quite fit in,
or the boy with the fabulous hair.
I wanted so badly to just be myself,
and then hated myself because I couldn't,
and then in turn,
I hated them.

So when the bullies do these things,
I dont judge,
or hate them for it,
or seek justice,
or revenge for their actions.
I just feel bad for them,
because they're the person now,
who I used to be a few years ago.

My friends,
they dont understand why.
Why I do just go tell the teacher of whats going on,
or tell my parents.
I dont want to do that.
It would only cause more repression,
and more problems.

Instead,
after they knock me down,
I brush it off,
and reach out a hand,
as a friend,
not a foe.
I'm there for them,
no matter how much they resist.
I tolerate it,
because I understand.

Francisco
An opened heart, a loyal soul, a keeper of what must not be known.
A piece of his heart is planted for everyone where love had time to grow.
Lover of the silence when he is to himself,
The volumes spoken when with each word emotions are shown,
The knowledge which is sought to feed the brain itself.
Who feels the pressure of society with every step he takes,
The splinters in his chest from recent heartbreak,
Like his world keeps on spinning as he writes thoughts down.
Who fears he must, in society’s eyes, be second rate,
The movements of lips with malicious intent carrying no sound,
The concept of religion for he thinks that’s the world’s end.
Who would like to see how human life began,
His books on their tables with the words speaking his own truth,
Peace to reach from the deepest abyss to the point of every mountain.
Resident of his take it day by day, love every moment, leased youth.
Delacruz-Hernandez