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To Jason Van Blaricom's previous piece

Bully

I think, maybe, if I write in this other notebook, my writing will improve
There’s none of that schoolwork in this one.
I swear, class notes are evil and
When I close my notebook and put it in my backpack
The notes find a page with poetry on it and kick sand in its face.
The poetry gets all disheveled, asks, ‘Why are you doing this to me?’
Some fact responds, ‘Shut up, Pussy!
You’re just an object of the imagination,
Some pathetic thing from the heart,
We’ve been proven by logic!’
The notes trip my poem and make him fall.
So when I go to check on him I find the words are all out of place.
My poem has lost its beauty.
Not because of the bruise, mind you,
But something self-induced, like women
Who are sick of being hit on and 
Dress unattractive to keep the perverts away.
I still notice you my poem. You’re my baby.
I carried you in my mind until you popped out of my pen,
(A small hole for such a large thought I promise you.)
And raised you on this page.
If someone is picking on you, let me know
Science is an adopted bastard child.
Though we should forgive him,
He’s been raised by a callous hand and
Love is nowhere in his parents' vocabulary
If he badgers you, we’ll be rid of him.
Nothing will be allowed to offend the solemnity
Of my child, my love, my poem.

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