He plays the pink well when they bust his chops,
Recalls old webs, and drinks his ghost world milk.
Because all he wants for is words like silk,
He stutters more, so his confidence pops.
No help, down his throat, a red pain pill drops,
His worst fear is to be labelled -an ilk;
Why he stays quiet- to mentally bilk.
Kids like him don’t have trouble with the cops.
No one says there’s nothing wrong being shy,
They think he’s postal, “So why can’t you talk?”
If it was that easy, he says he would.
He isn’t mad and doesn’t want to cry,
He wants to know why his mouth has a lock.
Just shy, just shy he says he would if he could.