Tower

(poems go here) “Tower” I wasn’t always as popular as I am now, and that isn’t to say much. You see, at the start of Jr. High I became a target of constant mockery, jokes, and ridicule. I was surrounded. Surrounded by corrupt and, or, socially inept individuals who, just because they could, would make others, including myself, feel like we were a curse or like we were a created mistake, and that it was our fault for living under that image... or that it was our fault for living, ridiculous... right? Everyday we became submerged in a parasitic lake of words and letters that befell us from the avalanche mountains of take this and that. Everyday we involuntarily fell when we faltered at the pushing; the shoving; the forced moving motions of power that shifted from person to person with an electrifying intensity that was shocking with every breath of poison that we had taken. We were the underdogs. It was easy for me to pretend like it didn’t hurt or like I didn’t care, but of course I did. I just took it like a man, or... at least that’s what I told myself. I was a kid; naive enough. I took comfort in the fact that I was not the only one in the same situation being bombarded by the imperfect perfections made perfect by legitimacy, and it’s safe to say that those who were, and myself, became quick friends... But the thought still remains. Who gave them the right!? Our parents sent us off to school every morning thinking that we will all be just fine. Alright. Sometimes I wonder if they ever even think about the moments; the times in their childhood when they were either the victims or the perpetrator, because either way they know about the torture; they know about the pain; they know how easy it is to inflict it. Just as easy as rain falls and as easy as it is to sense it; life had taken its path never to merge with the anxious desires of the meak! But do they understand; do they understand that the degrees of pain have increased since their time; that pain is a metastasizing cyst that burdens with every beat, every pulse, every dying rhyme of mind over matter that is never created nor destroyed, but discovered. It does matter, it matters to me and everyone else who pretends that they don’t mind when in actuality... it does, and they do. He was about my age. We rode the coattails through Jr. High together; with a few other friends tagging along. Yeah, we kind of used each other; pushing our confidence through the roof, fighting through every bloody battlefield that presented itself, and falling victim to provocated war... them versus us versus whoever the hell else was left. We always lost because we were severely out-ranked; no one paid attention to the nerds or geeks or whatever became the popular word of the week. We stood our ground thinking one day it’ll all be over. Whether they are the ones who surrender or not; it will be over, even if we had to combat crawl our way to the next level! One way or another we would come out on top... Well, It had to be, because there is no way in hell that we would admit defeat. It continued day in and day out; hour after hour; minute after minute; second after every wretched moment found scorching through the barrier that became our penetrable force field of vulnerable solitude. Again and again we always thought to ourselves today begins a new chapter, and so does tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that... But the problem was that yesterday began a new chapter too. As if the redundancy of life ever scurried away or receded into the darkness; the shadows; disappeared from the face of existence. No, It is still there... Just forgotten. We were not the type of kids to just accept the cruelty traded to us for our sense of security, our dignity, or self-image; we were angry, and yeah we were a little timid, but over time our frustration grew and grew until we decided to fight back. Only we didn’t know how. How do we combat those with an infinite arsenal of sticks and stones; a seemingly impenetrable barrier; a catalog of followers quick to make any place they would set... home. We didn’t have the gull, the effrontery; the heart for it. Not to say that we were afraid; just that we remembered that we didn't decide to get even... we decided to be brave. To us, to be brave meant to relinquish a vendetta and establish a sense of a sort of guilt. Guilt into realizing that they were the true victims; that they were the tortured; the shamed; the still crawling from what towered above them as a God does his people. They. were. Damaged. High school began and our anger became a relic and ancient and far existing thing of the past. Never again to be the victim or perpetrator of sanity, but to be something bigger. Of course... within absence of towering over the meak, but instead building upon the strength and character of the meak so they may tower themselves.