Your Mom's a Poem
I wrote a poem but I hate when others notice my work.
They don't know me yet they praise the inner mind of a jerk.
I scrawl sonnets. Suddenly, I'm a swagged out Shakespeare.
Next to true talent I'm nothing but a fake smear.
It shakes me. It takes me away from the reality.
We used to read books, what ever happened to me?
The laugh in me so drastically changed into a whisper.
Passing me with glasses he looked up and called me Mister.
Asking me and questioning why I was writing in ink.
Bashing me, passionately pushing me to the brink.
I asked him to shut up and he smiled like he owned it.
He reminded me of a sponge, absorbed in the moment.
He soaked up the rays and patted me with an "ok."
Pivoted, the little kid walked away from his own fray.
He's in for a long one. His future's full of pain,
and at that moment it had started to rain.
I looked at my work and there it remained.
Written in ink I left my own stain.
Some kids rode by and pulled up to the side.
They saw what I wrote and laughed 'til they cried.
They said it was crap and told me to go home.
I hopped on my bike and said "your mom's a poem."