Bullied Thoughts

The stanza below is the only

portion of a poem I was working

on that I have kept.

“I am the grown-up version

of a bullied child.

I felt the barbs and brutality

of childhood and at times,

I still feel the sting, even

this far removed from

childhood. It is a sore spot,

a white-hot scar on adulthood.”

The rest of the poem, I hated.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t saying

what needed to be said. I couldn’t

find the right sort of words to

really explain what that stanza meant.

Three long, overwrought, incarnations of the poem

went across this page and all of them

failed to clearly imbue the reader with

the right sense of the trap of being

bullied as a child can be.

I’m still not sure about it.

I still don’t think I can get it right.

All I know is that at times,

the inner bullied child still

whispers in my ear as I face

the challenges of being a grown up.

It whispers, “You can make it.”  

But I’m not sure.

I’m not sure which of us is braver.

The one that survived, or the one

still persevering.

Maybe I’ll keep this one.

Maybe it’s just right for him.