On a mound of dirt in morning light,
We battled fierce for playground might.
The game was wild, the thrill was loud,
Until a hush fell on the crowd.

 

No fists were thrown, no fight took place—
Just shoves and laughter, rough and base.
But when he fell and didn’t rise,
All eyes were blank with shocked surprise.

 

I heard them whisper, “Dwight did that,”
Their stares grew sharp, their voices flat.
No proof was found, no truth was weighed—
Just someone to blame, and I was made.

 

I slipped away, afraid, alone,
And sat in silence near the stone.
Inside my chest, a thunder roiled—
“Just eight years old, I’ve killed a boy.”

 

I made a vow that changed my ways:
No fists unless my life’s at bay.
A choice so small, yet vast in span—
It shaped the kind of man I am.

 

A crowd in fear will point and name,

Not seeking truth, but casting blame.

And once you're marked, it's hard to mend—

The shadows stay, long past the end.

 

Though teachers didn’t point the blame,
The children’s judgment stung the same.
It wasn’t truth that made them claim—
Just fear that needed find a name.

 

I welcome crowds where hearts stand free,
Each soul its own, with room to be.
But when they move with single mind,
That’s when I hold myself behind.

 

For in a crowd that moves as one,
The sense of truth can come undone.
It’s not the sticks that scar the soul,
But being blamed, there’s no parole.

 

A crowd in fear will point and name,

Not seeking truth, but casting blame.

And once you're marked, it's hard to mend—

The shadows stay, long past the end.