Monthly Archives: November 2016

Poem of the Day:  This Can’t Be Life

We work just to survive. Forever trying our hardest just to get by. The money we chase always seems to be hiding. We reach for the sky but it’s way too high. They make it damn near impossible to live without money. Yet the money I make, they always trying to take it from me. You need cash for gas just to make it to work, but first you need work just to get a car. Public transportation will only take you so far. And the bicycle you bought from Walmart got stolen out of your yard. Life shouldn’t be this hard. You bust your ass for that paycheck, then you check your stub and they took half. They call it a tax. But you don’t recal ever agreeing to that. Now you work even harder, staying for longer hours. You get another job in hopes the money will come in faster. Too bad that extra money went to fast food and take out because your never at home to cook a meal. In this endless cycle of work and sleep you become depress and medicine isn’t free. But you have no insurance so now all your money goes to weed. Trying to cope while still feeling like a dope. Living a life in hell with no signs of hope. You want to go to school but you don’t have the money so you take out a loan and now you owe Sallie. She charges you interest and adds on extra for any late expenses, because that make sense? You don’t have money to pay so they charge you more for just being late? At the rate it’s going you’ll never see the day when don’t have to worry if you bank account will be okay….. Is this life? Are we living? 

Poem of the Day:  Walking Stereotype 

They say I like whites girl simply because I was married to one. They say I’m not black enough because I don’t speak that urban tongue. I was called an Oreo because I spoke well. I was made fun of by all races, but fuck them, they all can go to hell. They say shit just to say shit, without any real meaning. But I’m super sensitive to all things that are ignorant. My Buddhist teaching tells me to let it go, but the environment I grew up in is saying “Let them know!”. So I gotta express my opinion to the fullest, I hate stereotypes, and everybody who uses them. Dark skin, earrings, tattoos, and a backwards hat does not define me. You don’t know who I am. You can’t look at me and predict you know where I’ve been, or who my friends are, nor my next of kin. My soul can’t be defined by the options you give when they ask you on a form, “What’s your ethnicity?” They always questioning and trying to place you into a category. But all I can be is me, forever able to roam free.