Stagnant

February 13, 2015

Across from me at the kitchen table

My father sighs, over a steaming cup of coffee

Pushes the newspaper my way raises his head

staring at me through Fogged glasses says

"find a city job you don’t want to end up like me."

I pretend to skim through the black and white pages

Glaring at the text in attempt to convince my father.

I become dizzy.

I am a loser with trivial skills

Who would hire me?

An empty shell that takes up way too much space

The space that is meant for the purposeful people

The Bronx is my dungeon with walls as thick as dust in a vacant home

I am going nowhere

I write stories my classmates deem armature and my poems come out maudlin

I am a brain both convinced and undecided

Dominating each menial job in hopes of reaching the top of the bottom.

From the Bronx where mediocrity is inevitable

And the words would you like fries with that are ingrained in your brain because that’s as good as it gets.

NO! NOT me!

The ferocity of my mind cannot be contained

My passion for words runs deep to the core of my body

I want to create, explore, eyes full of knowledge

Heart full of language body full of soul

I want to see the world and the world wants to see me

I can

I will

Still staring at me through fogged glasses from across the kitchen table.

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