6th grade revolution

someone help the little boy
locks of greasy dependance stuck
down upon his forehead
clothes in shambles
torn here and there
not one damn smile found amongst the frowns of disgust
judging him day to day
telling him with their eyes
no good
too fat
stench of death and neglect
nothing to offer
never have a smile
from anyone including himself
left behind
like the tabs of paper scrap spooned in the curves of the spiral binding
of a notebook who's paper leafs have been recruited away into productive bliss
pulled out
picked at
strewn about the madman's desk
left in long forgotten ink wells of absurd existance
never even collected for discard
by the fragile little girl
who's glasses are too big
mocking her gentle cheek bones
with overbearing assistance
she still can not see
the paper shrapnel
the fat little smelly boy
who sits in his sullen waste
singing
lean on me