The Bully
He likes to praise me, sometimes he can be nice,
Other times he can turn on me, turning cold as ice.
They may not be sticks they may not be stones,
But in this case, words do break bones.
They cut deep valleys within my soul,
They engulf my heart like wretched mold.
Words are his weapons, his weapons of choice,
He loves to launch them like daggers with his voice.
When I think he has gone and I will get some peace,
He comes storming back; the taunting doesn't cease.
Some say just fight the bully and set yourself free,
But it is an endless battle because the bully is me.
-Eddie Belcher
Copyright © Ed Belcher | Year Posted 2015
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