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  May 2018 Shane Michael Stoops
kaycog
I stare at an empty ceiling
because I gave him mine with the stars
As soon as you're born there’s no time at all
By the age of 15 your a kid no more
You’ll clean up their **** you’ll scrub the floor
You’ll hate your work  always longing for more
You’ll ***** so much never having no fun
You’ll hate your ******* boss and The person you’ve become
You’ll cuss his mother you’ll call her a *****
But your still  broke and forever poor
Every day the same as before
A working class hero is something to be
Just open your ears and listen to me
Your back will hurt and they’ll test your ***
If you don’t go to college you’ll flip burgers for free
They’ll bend you over forget vaseline

Your  boss is a **** and so much **** you’ll  have to clean
A working class hero is something to be
Yes
A working class hero is something to be
They like em young they like them free
Paid in peanuts or even magic beans
Your just a number you’ll always be
**** you’re living the American dream
A working class hero is something to be
You work till your dead with bruises on your knees
They’ll beat you down
Until 63
You’ll never retire
Retirements not free
You’ll spend your life working
There’s never any time for “me”
A working class hero is something to be
strive to be the best you can be
Just like Bill Gates  you’ve gotta aspire and dream  always remember never settle for mediocrity        
                          BECAUSE!!!!
A working class hero is something to be
life is what you make it take it from me
Set to the song working class hero
You move me.
You move me like sunlight on the dew drops of wild flowers.
You move me like the loud rumbling of thunder.
Like an intense game of laser tag; sweating and running and chasing.
You move me like Louis Armstrong's fingers on his trumpet.
You move me like my mother smiling down at me from the kitchen table when I was six.
Like Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band,
Like the smooth surface of my first hand-made bowl.
You move me.

You move me like the wind in my face when the car windows are rolled down.
You move me like my first paint set.
You move me like holding my first nephew, staring up at me with his small, blue eyes.
You move me like The Ground Is Lava.
You move me like the pen on this paper,
racing to scribble down my next thought.
You move me like snapping hair ties, like broken records, like drippy nail polish.
You move me like the rain drops on my window during a violent storm.  
You move me like a long, unwinding road.
You move me like holding my crying sister.

You move me like T.S. Eliot, John Green, Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, Neil Gaiman.
You move me like a fast swivel chair.
You move me like my first knocked-out tooth.
You move me.
You move me like my first kiss in the second grade, smiling and giggling and nodding at, "Do you want to do it again?"

You move me like your bruised fingertips.
You move me like nervous glances that are shot away when you look back at me.
Like our first hug, when I didn't want to let go.
Like my blistered feet when I snuck out and ran to see you.

Like the playful nudges when we walk rythmically side by side.
You move me like your slant rhyme.
You move me like my shaky leg.
You move me like the late nights spent looking at photos from my past.
You move me like new shoes on linoleum floors.
You move me like the purple bags under my eyes.
You move me like the first time you introduced yourself to me.

You move me like my first communion as a child; disrespecting the purpose to the practice and just wanting to down a shot of grape juice.
Like the printer that won't stop shooting out pages.
Like your tangled imagery and verse.
Like my first hat.
You move me like rushing water.
You move me like falling out bed.
You move me like when our hands accidentally brush against each other in the hallway.
You move me like refusing to give up and trying again.
You move me like the way I dream of moving you.
You move me.
Inspired by the bold, lovely Gina Loring, I was seventeen when I wrote this about a boy who I met in my creative writing class. He became my best friend.
Never get to close at the zoo
A hippopotamus can step on your shoe
You could get bit by a rabid racoon
Become lunch for a lion or get **** on by a loon
the zebras are crazy they'll eat your baby well humming a tune
They’ll  make a dessert out of your lady  
And eat her with a spoon  

YES! You can die when you visit the zoo
So.............
Here’s my advice to you ***** hippo the lion and the loon stay far away from the dangers that lurk inside of the zoo
I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.

I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.

I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.

I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.

I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.

I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.

I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.

I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.

Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.

I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.
09/07/12




A personal statement.
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