Things they used to say:
“Poetry is gay”
“Nobody likes a bookworm”
“That’s an awful song”
“You do not belong”;
Their taunts were painfully firm.

Things I used to think:
“How do they not know
Edgar Allan Poe?”
“Why do they stare when I write?”
“What is wrong with me?”
“What can I not see?”
I was always stuck in night.

Things I know today:
I still love the way
Words and music intertwine,
And despite their words
(And though they still hurt),
I’m perfectly fine.