Freak
A Poem
He hates the world, hates us, hates life
He tells us, he wants us to know
He proudly displays it on his arm -
Bright red scars
Painstakingly carved there through hours of
Agony, Numbness,
Perhaps even Boredom,
Or some combination of the three
He rolls up the sleeves of his black jacket
so he doesn’t have to speak; the cuts
say it all:
I hate the world, hate you,
I HATE LIFE!
And we never stop to wonder,
Why does he hate life?
We see the words
carved in his arm
And think, What a freak!
What a poor disturbed boy -
To us, those cuts define who he is:
a weirdo, a cutter, a freak
We see him as an entirely different race
We don’t see his face
The hurt, the pain there
He tells us he hates us,
so we fight fire with fire
and tell him we hate him too -
If only we could learn
to fight fire with water
and love him
