Words,
They could never hurt,
They could never cut,
They could never make you bleed,
Physically.

Words,
A manifestation of self-hate,
Written in bold,
Anorexia, Bulimia, Depression,
I was sold.

Words,
The last,
Written on a bloodstained note,
"I can't stay afloat"

"Pretty girls don't smile!"
Those are the words of wisdom
fake soothsayers preached,
not thinking that she'd listen.
Alas... now she's cold as ice.

His mouth forms a wide smirk
as the others laugh at his words.
But it isn’t funny.

She lowers her watery eyes, glasses slipping
down her nose.

Book pages flip
in the breeze that picks up.
She loses her page.

His mouth opens, sharp daggers sliding
from his lips
Their laughter echoed by the trees.

She gets up, stumbles, falls.
Lines of carefully thought-out words tumble to the ground
his foot stretched out in front of her.

Their hands reach for the pages.
Fingers wrap
Around worn bindings.

They play tug-of-war,
trying to pull it out
of each other’s grasp.

A rip.

Papers scatter in the wind.
Snickers fade with the footsteps
as her eyes rain tears.

I bend down.
Papers fill my hands
one by one.

She looks up.
The sun lights up her clouded eyes
as she takes the faded pages,
in her grasp again.

His head and his body were
Bald as an egg for all to see.
His parents named him Harry
But he did not turn out to be.
As an antonymic masterpiece
His name is rife with humor
But in poor Harry’s opinion
It was taken as a social tumor.

Every joke that would be said,
No matter how crass was made
At work, at play by everyone
Beginning in the seventh grade
When his baby fine blond hair
Began to hide on back of head.
It hurt his feelings to frequently hear
The things his peers all said.

By the time he reached maturity
He learned to accept his fate;
Everyday friends could not resist
Making light of his name and pate!
While it’s human nature all of this
It’s a constantly rather bitter pill,
And though he learned to smile
It kind of hurts his feelings still.

Bare Harry, bald as a shaved baby.
Plenty of tacky hairless jokes to spare
Shouldn’t we cut him some slack maybe
And focus on something besides his hair
Or the obvious lack thereof on his head
And point out his forgiving personality?
But sadly, that is just not the way
Of the reality of the world’s humanity.

Brent Kincaid
4/29/2019

Whispers fill the air
They fall on straining ears
Who want to hear the reds and blues
Of those who are not there

Smirking with delight
They draw close and near
Looking at the figure lone
Their snickers left in night

Crafting yet smiling
They turn and greet their (friend)
Loner, who is statue still
Is warmed by their lying

but unknown to the figure lone
His friend had drawn his blade
And left it in his back
For everyone to see.