Hey, You-

You sit high on your pedestal of metaphors and similes
You say I can’t write for ****, well thanks for the ministry  
But, please, show me where it is stated in your right
To act like you know a **** thing about me or my life
You want some emotion? Fine, I’ll give it to you
Like the back of his hand did to me when I was two
I’ll tell you some **** that would make you hurl
And cringe and binge and squeal and curl
Into a ball wrapped so tight you can’t breathe
Like I sat, locked in the closet when I was three
Only to go to school at five then six then seven
“It’ll get better, you’re only just eleven”
First day of middle school, unable to spell
Righteous punk in a personal hell
Cuz reading and writing aren’t a part of the drive
When you’re on the street just trying to survive
People looking away to what they don’t want to see
“Miss, could you spare some change to help me, please?”
You want to get personal? I can give you truth
I’ll tell you what the **** I’ve been through
Drugs, lies, abuse and ****
Freezing to death on streets without escape
Homelessness in herds of mothers and daughters
Generations of women born without fathers
I hide my scars well and maybe that’s why
You can’t see a **** thing behind your naked eye
But you can’t take away my story or my right
I’m too **** stubborn to back away from this fight
You take pride and hiding in your height and your rhyme
But I’ll give it to you straight, I don’t waste any time
I’ve seen too much and been dealt too little
To let someone like you, with all your riddles
Spit in my face to break me down
My body can sink and I still won’t drown
Your insults do not penetrate me
I’ve survived more than the lives of one, two and three
Numb and ruthless after countless stabs in my back
I am porcelain that falls and still does not crack
So, c’mon, try and tell me you don’t think I can
You’ll be forced to see just how can I am