A collection of saliva sits on the ground.
The substance heaped in a short little mound.
Attention drawn from all around.
As the boy sits in clothes from the lost and found.

        Covered in *****
                    A pant soaked burden
A question asked during learnin’
                                                  The answer being Martin Van Buren

                   Told he shouldn’t be in school
              By those glaringly cruel.
          Constantly made to seem the fool.
Leading to an increase in the pouring drool.

                       His eyes sit at an angle.
              Bulging out as if enduring a quick strangle.
       Caught in the shine of a young girl’s bangle.
He twists his hair into a locked tangle.

The girl bats an eye.
                                 His mouth goes dry.

A boy flicks a small paper ball.
     It sits in the air to pivot and stall.
                                Lands inaccurately out in the hall
                                              The teacher seizes it bracing up against the wall.

Unfolds the note,
        And reads what he wrote.

It held a cruel remark.
About handicap spaces and keeping him for the sake of a quick park.

The boy didn’t wish he were dead.
                Nor was he agonized by the insult recently said.
       The remark went right over his head,
    He was stuck thinking about how sympathy only comes to those who have bled.