They often called me simple
Those jeering childhood faces
telling me I wasn´t good enough
That I was indeed slow
That I could not think for myself
When a consensus arrives
For a naive child it´s forced
his new reality becomes their opinions
They often call it bullying
But it´s more collective
It´s like a syrup of shit
Telling a kid he is not good enough for anything
They haven´t discovered half of their abilities
latent or otherwise at the age of eight years old
How they polished the art of mocking
and centralized on me
If it wasn´t for words I have no way to claim ample retribution.
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