Bring me your hate, your love, your future and your past
Serve it in a plate with some wine in a glass
Show me a heart with which you have forsaken
Listen to it cry as it feels your hatred
Is this your life, a future and a past?
The meaning you see, you try to make last
Eventually all that you love will be dead
Everything you don't will be out for your head
Come my love
And be accepted Into my arms
My empty arms of neglect and pain
I'll bare you my soul, you will be to scared to run
Your heart beats so quick, your realities undone
Let's show our pain, our suffering, our love
Our trust and our desire we are the unheard of
We need no one else to hold us in grace
We already know that this is our place
You behind me, I am all alone
But I know your there and you keep me warm

Today is the day;
Apologize and love her.
She's only your mom.

I live in the land
Of the inbetweeners.
We are what
The French would call,
Bourgeoisie.
What the ghetto calls,
Bougie.
What the successful calls,
Day dreamers,
And what we call,
The future leaders.
I live in
The land of rebels.
The people who fought against their oppressors
Because they know the truth behind
Social Darwinism;
And the fact of the matter is
That no race
Is a superior race
Because "race"
Is a manmade idea
To justify the injust
Ideas of slavery.
The rebels who ran out of chains
Because they weren't
Supposed to be chained down.
The rebels who walked midnight railroads
To escape the clutches
Of the white man's burden.
The rebels who refused to stand
In one spot
When there were plenty of seats available.
The rebels who refused
to bite their tongues and
The rebels who refused to be spoken over
Because they had
A lot of important stuff to say.
The rebels who dreamt outrageous dreams,
So that the complexion
Of your pigment
Was never a deciding factor
In your life.
The rebels who refused
to follow unlawful laws
Because they were
Law abiding citizens
Only when laws were just.
The rebels who challenged what was superiority,
The rebels who changed the course of history forever.
I live in
The land of the outsiders
Who conform the
Preconceived ideas
To fit them
We roll small blunts
of white paper
Filled with the words
of novels and poetry
And blow through those books
Inhaling every letter
And letting it cling to our lungs
Flowing the grammar
Throughout our bodies.
We stand spittin
Absolute value bars
Rapping elongated equations
Of X equals
Y +/- root Z
Divided by root A
Times the quantity of
B - C.
We stick up
Banks filled with
Material and instruction.
Stealing all the information we can take
And try peicing it together
So that more than words
We have knowledge.
We *******
Our brains,
Pleasing its sapiosexual
******* with
Grammar and arithmetic.
I live in the land
Of the inbetweeners.
The people making history
In their everyday lives.
The revolutionaries
Who fight for even
The smallest of issues.
The individuals who stand out
Amongst a crowd of people
That look just like them.
The inbetweeners,
They who refuse
To subjugate themselves
To society,
But will subjugate society
To themselves.

Maybe I should just stop shaving my legs.
Everytime I do, somebody doesn't show.
I'm really starting to question my theory about me choosing bad men
and starting to believe there 's no such thing as a good man.

Yesterday was my father’s 60th birthday so I called him.
How many times have I heard tears of joy at the end of a receiver?
I don’t know how to answer these things,
I do not have a response to my own age sadness
nor my father’s.
I told him I had class and hung up.

Sometimes, I wonder why god does not give me a phone call.
It seems everyone has been hearing from him lately
and I wonder if it is because I do not brush my teeth
in the morning or if it is because I spit on Ricky’s pants
in third grade. He called me foxy
I just wanted to be human.

Do you think people are ghosts until they speak their mind?
Look at Anne Frank and Michael Jackson-
They are the closest things to humans I can find
when I look in gutters and radio signals
(I don’t find much there)

I bet you’re the type of person
who looks in between couch cushions and finds
job interviews and an always loving mother
who will never forget to pack you a lunch
and will always remember the exact time
of your birthday or your soccer schedule

I bet you and god talk on a regular basis

You are the type that I wish the best of luck to
out of respect but never necessity
and you tell me my eyelids are too heavy
and I should stop ironing out my poetry

I want to write you a letter
and dot all of the eyes with hearts
but I don’t mean to be ****** at all, I’m sorry
I just miss feeling as good
as my first kiss which wasn’t very good
but I am running out of firsts
and last is my least
favorite word in the dictionary

Tonight I will try calling god,
but my roommate will pick up the phone
and instead I will crawl into an envelope
and wait, wait--
I hope this is not something that will disappoint you