Broke and homeless
This dream, unrealized, glimmering out of reach. My MFA shocking in its simplicity. No, instead a B.A. in Communication, a degree for dreamers, for those unwilling to plant their feet in a solid occupation.
I was raised to be a warrior, to spit out truth at every turn with brutal, unflinching candor. Instead, a flower, a reserved little girl who only bursts out screaming in the poetry slam, of which you are quite familiar.
The slam, the only way to scream and scream and scream.
Too self-centered to stay at each event, but still, suddenly Shannon has worked her way into me.
Too much collision in course on the eve of graduation.
What bullet pierced my skull yesterday
Went straight to the forebrain
A bullet, pulpy and strange
What a disgusting waste of time
To toil forever in dead-end jobs
Instead of realizing my full potential
To toil
Share a bunk bed with my sister
To be nothing
To lose something
To let it go
To leave them behind
To find myself
And truly be myself
Free of dead end occupation
Expression is the key
To unrealized creativity.
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