Do not tell me that you have time to prove yourself!
You have one day...
If that.
A mere time frame of 86,400 seconds is quite demanding to build an entire social status if you'd ask me.
A single glance from a student who's deemed themself higher than the others can determine the next four years of your life.
Don't tell me that we all have equal opportunities!
"Equal opportunities" is a term we use to make ourselves feel self-righteous while simultaneously destroying others, uncaringly.
I've seen specs of dust given more attention than the human life.
I've seen students overlooked as if they weren't even standing there...
As if they were thin air.
We vacuum dust, because we don't want it there.
Do you give them the same effort?
Don't tell me that we all live in the same world!
We see Earth through confident and bold eyes,
but I've seen others who see Earth through torn eyes.
Have you ever had your entire view distorted and stretched before cascading down into a irrecognizable blob of vision before escaping you, only to repeat the process?
I haven't, but I have seen others do so.
How? Why?
I've seen kids eyes glazed with tears day after day,
So much so that the tears violently escape with every chance they get to separate themselves because separation is their only substitution for acceptance!
They don't live, they merely drag themselves through life.
But life's a brutal ride for them.
You chain them to the back of a car and take off, smiling, subconsciously realizing what you're doing, but you refuse to admit it because you're a "good person".
They're not treated like the rest, they're an object, not a life...
Not a friend.
The extent of their connections are only the jagged rocks that you dig into them, their emotional scars growing larger, gaping so wide to swallow the world...
But the world's already swallowed them.
Their emotions are created by pills and drugs and counselors and parents who just don't understand.
Teachers try to teach, but the children learn only of cruelty and not of knowledge.
Don't tell me that they're not strong enough to face our world!
Persecution is simply the evasion of your own persecution.
But your persecution doesn't exist, not when you're armed greater than any military force on the planet.
You're armed with the rocks and missiles of emotion.
So brutal to take a life... but that's called their own suicide...
Then the blame's on them, not you...
I've seen spirits built, but I've also seen hearts shattered like a pane of glass tossed angrily off the Empire State Building by a single word.
No.
Ugly.
Stupid.
I've seen boys act like men, their actions larger than their capabilities.
I've seen them make executive decisions, but not about themselves.
Oh no, they wouldn't dare.
They condemn others potential.
So much so that their target believes it.
After all, hiding behind invisible scars isn't quite a good camouflage.
I've seen four mere letters **** lives.
...WHEN THREE CAN BRING THEM BACK!!!
Don't tell me that they need to build confidence!
...when you're the one who took it away.
Their building is limited to walls, not to keep others out, but to close the scars.
You don't see their effort.
Invisible scars aren't quite a spectacular sight.
I've seen glazed-eyed, broken-hearted, emotionally bruised, invisibly scarred kids say "I'm fine".
Each day.
To avoid further attacks.
The attacks bombarding them in their dreams!
While you float off into your escape land, they live with the shadow of death peering over them.
The pleas every night, accompanied by the all-too-familiar scent of tears fill the room, as their souls scream the constant longing for happiness.
But with invisible scars, come muted voices...
I've seen the attacks of others break a kid down so far that they cease to say a word or accept friendships.
Don't tell me that they're anti-social!
And don't tell me that they're fine!
I've seen kids walk with a drooped walk and eyes at the ground, because when their eyes meet another students, memories will flash.
Memories that they can't face.
Memories that people have created.
We're all guilty in some degree or another.
That's they irony.
Memories that were created...
By us.
