Her youngest was four and her oldest, eleven,
A beautiful growing boy.
He’s always had trouble with bullies at school,
But at home he’s such a joy.

She had spoken to the school board often
They’d said it was just a phase
Kids pick on each other all the time,
They’ll be friends by seventh grade.

Mother smiled, so proud of her son
The insults made him strong.
He loved his family, loved his church,
He was moving on.

Full of pride and warm inside,
Mother went upstairs
To kiss her kids and say goodnight
And help them say their prayers.

At the top of the stairs her body froze
Staring at her son’s door
In front of his room, he swung by the neck
From an extension cord.

The rest was a blur, her body was numb
Cutting the cord, crying.
Trying to force life back into the boy
Without thinking of him dying.

He chose, she sobbed, he couldn’t take it.
Those kids, they called him names.
They gave him hell, they wouldn’t stop.
They said it was a phase.

Through the haze she watched her son,
Dead before his mother.
There was nothing she could do for him.
But she knew that there were others.

Kids are bullies everywhere
And no one tries to stop them.
She should live the rest of her life
Fighting to end the problem.

God had told her what to do.
Move on, stand up, be braver.
But it’s so much easier to just give up.

And who can blame her?

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This is based on Sirdeaner Walker, a woman from Massachusetts whose 11-year-old son recently hanged himself because he was constantly bullied at school. Unlike the woman in my poem, Sirdeaner chose to speak out and fight the system in the end. It made me realize how I a) appreciate and admire people who take action to fix problems after suffering personally as a result of them, and b) can’t blame those who suffer from the same things and do nothing about it.

updated Aug 5 '09 by Rac7hel