More poems by Rachie Technicolor

The Boy

Youth lingers in his every smile, his every move. There is an air of pleasure about him, an air of mischief. Looking at him, hearing the humor in his words, seeing the glint of a joke in his aqua eyes, you would never know he has been an oddball his entire life.

Misfit, freak, weirdo, rebel: all of the things that make him an idol. Dumb, distracting, dimwit, dunce: all of the things that make him a hero. Sticks and stones didn’t break his bones, and words can’t hurt him. Been there, done that, grown up.