THE BULLY

THE BULLY

From Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul IV

The Bully

He rages from within, his eyes fixed in a stare,

Anxious for a fight, with whom he doesn’t care.

His heart is filled with anger, his fists clenched in a ball,

Eager to ruin someone’s day, as they hurry down the hall.

Who shall be his victim, there are many he can choose,

The girl with braces on her teeth, the kid in school who’s new.

To him they’re all the same, how he longs to make them cry,

And as the anger builds within, his classmates scurry by.

And then he sees around the corner, the shortest boy in class,

Should he be his victim, he wonders when he teased him last.

He doesn’t quite recall, he really doesn’t care,

His choice is finally made, because the boy is there.

So he calls out nasty names, as the boy dares to hurry by,

A boy who’s done nothing wrong, just merely wondering why.

Why he’s being teased, why won’t anyone step in?

He’s terrified of fighting back; there’s no doubt he’d never win.

And there stands in the doorway, a teacher in plain view,

Who merely shakes his head, for what else can he do?

He’s simply there to teach, the boys aren’t in his class,

Teasing is a part of life; it’s a phase he knows will pass.

So the bully is the victor, his place has well been earned,

The lesson no one taught him, is one he’ll never learn.

To a teacher, he’s merely trouble, to the kids he’s to be feared,

To his alcoholic father, he’s a mistake and wasted years.

He’s headed for a jail term; his life cannot be saved,

His problems are his own; his path to crime is paved.

So there he stands so angry, his back against the wall,

Begging for attention, by making others small.

Standing on a corner, traffic whizzing by,

He yells out to the world, angry clouds roll through the sky.

His displeasure is apparent, his fists clenched so ever tight,

Who shall be his victim, on this fast approaching night?

There are many he can choose from; they all deserve his rage,

To him the world’s just an act, he longs for center stage.

And then he spies that tired old man, with groceries in his hand,

At last he’s found his victim, he proceeds without a plan.

He calls out angry threats, as the old man stumbles by,

One who’s done nothing wrong, just merely wondering why?

Why he’s being cursed at, why won’t anyone step in,

He’s terrified of fighting back; there’s no doubt he’d never win.

And there stands in the doorway, a grocer in plain view,

Who merely shakes his head, for what else can he do?

The man is not his father; the boy is not his son,

Words are nothing more than that, the boy’s just having fun.

So the bully is the victor, his place has well been earned,

The lesson no one taught him, is one he’ll never learn.

To the grocer he’s merely trouble, to the old man he’s to be feared,

To his alcoholic father, he’s a mistake and wasted years.

He’s headed for a jail term; his life cannot be saved,

His problems are his own; his path to crime is paved.

So there he stands so angry, his back against the wall,

Begging for attention, by making others small.

Drunk and with a shotgun gripped within his hand,

Hidden in the shadows, by a station where he stands.

He watches cars pull in and out, customers walking to and fro,

Staring past their faces, as they rush past him on the go.

Who shall be his victim, on that robbery barely planned,

There are many he can choose from, their lives so close at hand.

His heart beats out in anger; his brow is damp with sweat,

He has to win this game; the rules have long been set.

He sees her through the window, of her bright and shiny car,

The easy perfect target, his plan will take him far.

He hurries to the car door, he forces himself inside,

The shotgun near her head, as she begs him for her life.

But they are merely words; they do not faze his ears,

Her life is unimportant; he mocks her many tears.

And somewhere in the struggle, her screams pierce throughout the air,

She is just another victim, why, because she’s there.

And there stands in the doorway, a mechanic in plain view,

Watching as the man drives away, what else can he do?

The girl is not his daughter; the boy is not his son,

He could not risk his own life, to stop a stranger with a gun.

The papers showed his picture, his face glorified across the screen,

To the world he was a loser, to himself he’d found his dream.

For at last somebody noticed, the boy with all that rage,

At last he found an audience, there from center stage.

So the bully was the victor, his place had well been earned,

And the lesson no one taught him, someone else was forced to learn.

For somewhere in the world, the shortest boy in class,

Stands there on the corner, watching everybody pass.

His anger overflowing, poison in his heart,

Getting even for his torment, seems the perfect place to start.

And elsewhere on the sidewalk, creeps a feeble man,

For his own protection, a weapon in his hand.

Watching every single person, who quickly passes by,

His heart no longer frightened, he’s no longer asking why.

For inside he knows the answer, as does the smallest boy in class,

Words ignite an anger, whose meaning may not pass.

But perhaps the biggest lesson, that stands out from the rest,

Has been forced upon a mother, who wonders what lies next.

As she stands there at the gravesite, where her only daughter lay,

Wondering about the horrible events, that led her to that day.

What caused a child so young, only sixteen years of age,

To be filled with so much anger, to internalize such rage.

That he would kill her daughter, so young and full of life,

Didn’t anyone ever take the time, to teach him wrong from right?

To his father he was nothing; his life at home was fear,

And from his drunken father, came a message very clear.

Words that wreaked their damage, that no one cared to see,

The day a good-for-nothing boy, became what they said he’d be.

Cheryl Costello-Forshey

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