My grandmother likes her poems neat
She likes them pink and cozy, without heat
She likes them simple and likes them rhyming,
Cute and kept in time-ing.

My mother, she just likes poetry
Doesn't write it, doesn't recite it
Reads it, sure
But not much else.


but me, my poems are all over the place

up




or down

maybe left                                                             ­                        maybe right

i make em whatever the **** i want
so long as they mean somethin real
somethin true, somethin beautiful
not short or sweet necessarily                maybe if i want to

maybe.

not my fault i was born when i was
not my fault i was raised like i was
the world around me is what i make it
here's what i think, go ahead- take it
i can't help it that i'm young
can't help it if i'm dumb
i look at you and try to understand anyways
but you say it's a matter of time, a matter of days,
say i can't be this or that cause of my age
well **** that, tell it to my rage
tell it to the tears the course down my face;
tell it to my people, the whole human race;
tell it to the butterfly who was born yesterday,
say they can't be beautiful cause they'll waste their life away
you can't look me in the eyes and tell me my life
is a waste of space, just meaningless strife
towards goals i'll never achieve
for people that you don't believe
can change the world
hey, watch me do it anyway.