I grew up,
alone,
reclusive,
not wanting to share in the happiness that drove other worlds.

I grew up,
melancholy,
woeful,
desolate,
thinking that my words could drown out
those endless cries of agony inside.

I grew up,
and when I grew up I saw the world,
anew,
in a different light,
one that was light,
but dark,
and mournful.

I knew a boy,
tormented for being stupid,
when his IQ,
was only ten insignificant points below passing,
but a hundred points below respect,
a thousand below gratitude,
a billion below pride.

At home, his parents loved him,
told him,
honey,
you are the kindest,
most honest,
greatest,
most perfect kid we could have had.

But school was a battlefield,
a place where children fight,
not with guns,
not with sticks or stones,
but with weapons much sharper,
more keen than a sword,
and stronger than a thousand arrows.

Words.
Blows which stung and stuck,
an endless pain,
that wormed their sly way
into the depths of consciousness.

All men grow old,
All things must pass,
but brothers,
Sisters,
Children,
Parents,
Cousins of a tormented universe,
I ask you this.
When you drew inside of your fortress,
with walls not of iron,
nor of steel,
but of a will so mighty,
so powerful,
so alone.

Did you think?

Did you remember that at home you parents loved you,
and that whatever happened,
whatever sorrow you had faced,
whatever oppressors you saw,
whatever tyrants did,
They will always love you.

Love you.
Cherish you.
Protect you.