The Help

Literature is my outhouse.

Keeping my mind clear,

Saving memories,

Stories that'll appear in our history.

Days fly by,

Fly by like each page.

Months are my chapters,

Years are my books.

Accused of being a crook,

When it's my life they took.

Enslaved with the responsibilities,

Created by the blank ones.

Getting paid less than an ant would.

22 years old,

Old works of a white man.

Carries on, 
Past the death of my son.

I write for him, I write for me.

I write for the change I wish to see.