These low income kids need more motivation
My teachers don’t know the problems we are facing
I am not a rich privledged girl
I am a chicana, raised in the ghetto type of girl

Let me take you inside of my world
Just next to my house is where the gangsters meet
If you say something wrong
They’re quick to leave you dead in the street
Graffiti and gang signs is all you see on the walls
If you take a walk and hear shots
You wouldn’t want to be in deep

Cops can stop you just because they can
People like us, do you really think they give a ****?
My brother is always getting stopped by a white man
They tell him “Put your hands over your head”
Any sudden movement and he is for sure dead

In the night the guns are pulled
Gang enemies coming over
Looking for problems up to no good
The street rules are in place like it would
Gun shots and sirens are playing in the background of my hood

Poverty makes times even more rough
I didn’t get new kicks for Christmas
I guess it’s just my luck
I have faith in God that I will get out of being stuck
I have decided I have had enough...

*** starved and aging badly
Too many cigarettes and 'dank *** ****'
Bad tattoos and ****** hair so scraggly
He's called in sick to work all week

He set his high score four years ago
But she broke his heart last June
Now he's stuck in his parents basement
Doing speed runs on Halo 2

She has no cash to feed her cats
But she bought two wigs on Monday
She dresses up like anime girls
And thinks she'll be famous someday

She'll tell you she's just keeping it real
While dressed like someone from science fiction
She meets the boy at some comic con
And they go to her hotel room to make friction

...

Edgelords and meme queens
Addicted to the obscene
Spewing hateful words
With no care for what they mean

It seems that even the regals
                                   Are doing their kegels

I stare at the closet doors.
Ugly brown bifold  doors that slide open.
They are in the house we moved into
1800 miles away from home.
That east coast house holds memories, tears,
     pain and tragedy.
A new start, a new home, a new place.
Behind the closet doors are his guitars.
Those strings played countless chords;
Chords that eased his soul and occupied his mind.
Notes rang out. If you listened, you could hear his story.
I miss his music. I miss his beautiful eyes...
I miss my child.
The doors are open and I take out the acoustic guitar.
Strum to check out the tuning, hoping to play,
But the strings are old and out of tune.
They are worn like my soul.
Tears fall as a place the guitar back.
The last thing he did before he died was play one last song.
He tucked his pick neatly in the strings,
Then he was gone.
I close those ugly brown doors knowing that soon I will try again.
Maybe one day I will restring that guitar,
But for now, I will just remember.

that* (pronoun)
\ˈthat, thət\

used by the misunderstanding to describe the depth of thought and/or emotion experienced by the reader upon reading poetry that has been ripped directly from the author's soul

We still think
we're ripe figs, saplings
green and sweet 'neath supple
bark, hearts still sticky,
fruit still ****.

A painting of men,
tangled in a web of flesh.
Drifting into hell.

Drifting into sleep,
I put on your mix CD
to rinse my eyes clean.

I would pray for you.
Writing it gives me chills and
I might wash my hands.

I yearn for your arms,
and exhale daydreams of love.
Pretending to breathe.

I want you to breathe.
I choke you as we **** and
say something nasty.

You know, John Cage said,
"In the dark, all cats are black."
Maybe that's why we

close our eyes to kiss,
or sleep in each others arms;
We don't fear our night.

I grow tired of you hurting yourself with me.
You learn to hate me.
We don’t talk anymore.

My nightmares become fatal.

I stop responding because I don’t know how to answer, and I spend Christmas alone passing out wine-drunk to Naruto. I’m not sorry. My mother calls and I don’t know what to say, and neither does she. Then New Years Eve approaches like a dark cloud to water our crop, and wash away our debts,

but

my acquaintances want to have a fistfight, and I’m asked to be a witness in the police report [but I clearly remember nothing happening, through shades of alcohol].

I clearly remember at the beginning of the night I told you I don’t **** with cops.

Yet, now you’re surprised it makes me uncomfortable.

My daydreams grow immersive. My gameplay grows sloppy.
My reactions grow dull. My body grows weak.
This stranger tastes like cigarettes.
I don’t clearly remember the rest.