I dream of having a story to give.
I’ve never experienced a drive-by shooting, military recruiting,
bank looting. I smell car engines polluting, watch students computing,
and listen to Justin Timberlake suiting.
I dream of having a story to apply.
I’ve never watched a person die as she sighs her last goodbye, sat, wondered why, and cried.
I’ve never seen a beating so defeating, that a treating or support group meeting would only
be depleting an already eaten soul.
My struggles are in math class, controlling sass, and calculating pant sizes that fit my ass.
I dream of having a story to tell.
Because while he dwells in his hell and she rots in that cell,
their bruises swell and tears well,
while he watches her demise,
I try to improvise for
drive-bys, war cries, bad guys.
I dream of having a story to share.
Do I dare share my sheltered affairs?
I too have a burden to bear as I bare my “despair” of day care and unfair four square.
My bruises grow and tear-stained face glows as I show my foes that I don’t need those woes.
One day I’ll say that it’s okay, and I’ll pray to find the gold among the gray and stray from
spiked punch bowls, military control, and bullet holes.
My tale will entail details of derailing from the encouraged trail.