Going to be blunt: a failed poem because I am not a poet.

I am sick of your bullshit.

Sugar coating things that have to be said.

Putting me down, because you’re stuck in your head.

Balls to the wall, “I don’t mind…I can wait, (just breathe, I say:) it’s okay.”

                                                        I lied.

                                                                 I lied to your face.

                                                                         (Much worse) I lied to my brain.
I can smile through confusion and give it a go,

Everybody here doesn’t really have to know.

I somberly wait for a change in your mood,

but you’ll always see me as the girl from tha’ hood (wherever the frack that is)

                                        You’ve pegged me.

                                                                 I’m your recent charity-

                                                                           work, work, work even harder-me.

                                                                                                        While you collect your new subsidies

At times you deceive me with eyes that are brittle,

I’ve to remember you don’t think me as equal.

And yet here I am doing your bidding,

while pushing aside the things I am dreaming.

Here I go. 

Here I go, friend! You say—and you fly off so high!

In a bright red balloon: I painted with pride.

Above and away, on that balloon I inflated.

You forgot my ticket? (she must of forgot,)

                                                        for I refuse to be hated.

I’ll deny the face in the mirror her past:

When younger she knew that nothing could last.

The looks, the looks, the looks that they gave–

could, in just a second, tear down this brown maid.

                              She is so nice.

                                         She is so pretty.

                                                          She will do anything to rise with her city. 

                                                                     I carry it with me, wherever I go—-

                                                                             Bellavista, L.A., and the valley of San Fernando–BUT

Let’s be blunt.

 Meantime, far far far away, the traveler floats

Down from the ground, this brown maiden gloats.

The fruits of her labor can for themselves attest.

For her creative integrity cannot be possessed.

That is why in bondage will she always have freedom.

To know who she is because of where she’s come from.

This girl is no longer attached to a lie.

She sees who she is, and she feels so alive.

 

                     The the color of her skin

                                      The flavor of her food

                                                        The passion of her song

                                                                      Breaks down that bad mood.

                                                                                      Breaks it all, tired bones. 

                                                                                                        Brakes. 

I am sick of your bullshit, she heard herself say.

But thankfully the balloon was flying away.

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