The Ploy

no bully zone. =/

There once was a boy who was skinny and bleak.

His glasses were wired.

He was smallish and tired.

Because he was weak, people poked and burned.

Had skinned alive.

And burned inside.

Poor kid, the teachers would say.

During the day.

What doctors won't say.

Sent him to school, but he wasn't made up.

Wasn't controlled.

Got no one to hold.

That kid...oh, what was his name?

No one remembered.

It's never been rendered.

So he got out his gun and brought it to school.

Won't make him a fool.

He wasn't a tool.

He pulled them on bullies, he wasn't controlled.

He wasn't that bold.

So how did that fold?

The story was short, but the minutes were long.

Like singing a song.

The words carried wrong.

The cops made it in, but it was too late to save.

Too late to be brave.

Time to fix up a grave.

The kid was locked up, but he hadn't a care.

Knew this had been fair.

Left the people a scare.

He knew it was wrong, but he'd do it again.

Didn't mattered of when.

He'd do it again.

To stop the bad peope from getting inside.

From hurting his friends.

Though part of him died.

To God, he will pray, but he knew he would die.

They would send him to jail.

In life, he would fail.

Unraveled the flower, the love he once saved.

The petals he craved.

Though he was enslaved.

So he swallowed it whole.

So no one could deprive him.

So no one could take the last thing contrived him.

He was used as a toy.

He wasn't a ploy.

Though he was a killer,

His name had been Troy.