In this age when bullying is such an item of concern I cannot help smiling whenever I recall my youth as a boy soldier; then it (bullying) was practiced as an art form, encouraged (I’m sure) by authority for its “character building aspects”. Thus:

When I was in the Army, well, that's Apprentice school,
Inspecting one's belongings, early morning seemed the rule.
And many hours spent beezing boots and ironing, folding, kit.
Taught me to carry on with smile and hate it every bit.
One had to lay one's kit on bed, and sleep by there on floor
To survive next morning's panicked fright begun by crashing door,
And that prancing A/T noncom., his ego, bully led,
Who would burst his way into our World and yell 'Stand by your bed'.

Then we'd all leap to attention, crumpled, ruffled hair.
And our eyes they'd be unseeing though we each knew he was there,
Looking straight ahead, just hoping, as he poked among our stuff,
As he picked up polished boots, that he wouldn't be too rough,
And hurl them through the window or against the fire door,
That he wouldn't scrape his own boot studs along our polished floor.
Of course, these hopes, these dreams of ours, were just pies in the sky.
As well to hope or dream like that, well, pigs might even fly.

Now he's checking button stick, and laces properly square
And the cardboard frame inside your shirt, the one you never wear.
The plimsoles stiffly black which you've polished shiny bright.
The dimensions of your bed block; that counterpane's real tight.
And its corners, every corner, must be folded tight to bed.
If it's not, you'll spend a morning drilling hard outside with Fred.
And now, today, I marvel that our masters thought it right
To let this sneering, snarling, youth on us vent all this spite.

But the proven test of character when all is said and done
Was despite the gruelling life we led, we jeeps, we still had fun.
And my particular little joy, the butter on my bread
Was thinking, when outside of School, I'm going to smash his head.
Some others might have thought the same not that it really matters,
For though I don't recall his name, his memory lies in tatters.
And after all, recalling life, those patterns on the quilt,
Can we be sure that what we write is free of any guilt?

Over sticks, and stones...
no broken bones ...
only thick bands ringing
neck, and throat.

I floated onward, anyway:
my fainted,
fading body, splayed;
swathed, and rolled,
in a jacket shroud,

as gently, as...a paper wave.
Yet, onward, pulled,
on grasses, loud,

As softly, as
...a blackened cloud.

Sugar. Honey. Iced. Tea.
They mutter it when they’re too scared to come at me. It’s cute, really.. how they smile and throw shade, and then act shocked when I don’t sit there and fade.

S is for Sugar, like their condescending tone, when they joke in class and won’t leave me alone. “You’re so weird,” they say, with that laugh on loop. So I smile back, and plot how to flip the whole group.

H is for Honey, that sickly sweet lie, “We’re just teasing!” Nah, you’re asking to cry. Keep poking, keep playing, keep running that mouth, but don’t act surprised when I knock you clean out.

I is for Iced, like my knuckles post swing, and the silence that follows when I end the whole thing. I don’t fight often, but I do fight loud. Enough to make the fake girls rethink their crowd.

T is for Tea, verbal or literal, either I sip it, or I serve it criminal. Sometimes it’s words, sharp as a blade, sometimes its fists when the message won’t fade.

Sugar Honey Iced Tea, such a posh way to swear.

Perfect for school halls, for pretending to care.
Because if I said what I really meant?
I’d be sent home, labelled violent or bent.

But don’t be fooled by the silence I keep.
Every insult’s recorded, every smirk runs deep.
I give as good as I get, and sometimes worse.
In this uniform jungle, I don’t just curse.

So yeah, bully me. Try it, see what you earn.
You’ll get banter back, or maybe a burn.
And if all else fails and words fall flat?
Well.. Sugar. Honey. Iced. That.

The people who were supposed to be
My friends
Proved not when I needed them
Most
I was called r***** for being interested in forensic science
A  spazz because I had emotional scars
And toll to k-i-l-l my self
Because i was unique
These people who were supposed to be my friends
Proved to be a pain in the ****
Both physically and emotionally
A keloid
To be rid of
Has more integrity
Then them
What they did they will have to
Answer for to God he says
Thru shalt not killer
But that is only with weapons
Not with words
As I was slowly murdered
And my dreams broken
These people who were my friends
They are
Fake

So your sitting there talking on the phone
but in your statement your standing all alone

You can’t play the game of a one time mistake
you’ve done it before, so we know it’s all fake

A defense against an attack never made
you were the one who started the charade

To pin the blame on those that you hurt
put all those around on heightened alert

A stalker, a hater, a bully and the like
the names you called, putting a friendship on strike

But it never seems to be that you think it through
cuz every single one only applied to you

It's 8 o'clock in the morning
And I still thinking about the warning
That I got while I was eating
At buffet where they are seeking
Someone like a silly and to bully

And I was the perfect choice for that
As there was nothing in me but fat
And now here I am, sitting and crying
In the bathroom tearing and dying,
Of the pain that's a feeling and a dealing
With this kind of self-appealing

There they come, with a smile on their faces,
With a knife and cigarettes
Scratching and burning my skin to ashes
What do i need this kinda treatment?
Just because I got a belly and cheeks,
Makes me the one to see these freaks?