Dear Mr.Bully | ✓

- p r o l o g u e -

I carefully climbed down into the dark room,

and I examined my surroundings. Dust had collected everywhere over the course of the years and cobwebs decorated the ceiling , the paint on the walls that was once white seemed to peel off if touched. I sighed.

The basement was not going to be easy to clean out. Walking over to one of the many shelves that stood in the room, I attempted to take out the old books that were piled up inside.

Just as I lifted the books from where they once were, a cloud of dust emerged making me sneeze and fall back on the floor. I recovered from my sudden landing and and scratched my head in annoyance why did I have to do this? I began to recollect the books that had fell with me.

I cussed under my breath for my clumsiness, but my attention averted to something else. Most specifically, one of the books that were in my hand. I held it up and read the title poems of mine. I flipped through the pages feeling a bit nostalgic as I haven't seen the book in years. The first page was filled with the messy hand writing of my 16 years old self, along with numerous doodles of random things.

Most people keep diaries
Most people believe in fairies
But I'm here to tell you
I am not the same as these
I don't have diaries
I don't believe in fairies
It's only my songs and me
Fighting this world of misery

The first page, and I'm already reading some deep emotions.. being an emo teenager wasn't the best back then, I used to be picked on lot and called names you don't want to know. The only way I could escape from my never ending circle of depression was through my poems.

I Sat up straight on the dirty floor and crossed my legs , the book in hand. I turned the page ready to recollect what happens in my teenage life once again. The first words I see?

Dear Mr.Bully.....

. . . . . . . . . . . .
A/N
Trying to actually be a writer and the this deep crap is what I write