To be or not to be, that is the question
Or is it a hidden, forbidden sort of oppression?
Neither a borrower, nor a lender be,
I can’t be anything else, I can’t be me.
You see,
 I could be an alchemist, or a mathematician
But my dad’s bad rap forces me to be a poetic magician
Boys are scared to woo me,
“Flowers won’t do,” they say
“Flowers and chocolates can’t compete with her father’s lyrical ways.”
But the few that brave my dad are assinegos anyway,
Their one liners are the one reason I keep them at bay.
“I can be the Romeo to your Juliet,” they say,
And i'm just here like, “seriously?”
Residing in Shakespeare’s shadow, especially in school,
Where the teachers and children are equally cruel
When I didn’t raise my hand to answer her question,
But I still get picked about King Hamlet’s resurrection.
My essays are always soaked with red marks
Teachers say, “I know you have inside access from the start!”
So I say, “try this on for size,
Open your pia-mater up to my demise,
This isn’t a midsummer’s night dream, but rather the ides of March
I’m more brutal than Brutus so don’t make me start
O, if I were a glove upon that hand, that delicate hand that shakes,
id shove that glove up where your yonder never breaks,
it is the east, and I’m just his daughter,
not his disciple, follower, or co-author”
but before I could finish,
the school bell rang
and my anger disappeared with that tang.
who knew poetry would be this cathartic?