No. Stop. Listen.
Look, I know where you think I'm going with this
but it's not another rape poem, and it's not
about physical abuse of any other kind.
No. Stop. Listen.
I wear socks that don't match, socks that
don't fit me quite right, with loud colors
and patterns that nobody else would like.
No. Stop. Listen.
It's not that I'm crazy, in fact it's to keep me sane,
no one listens to little girls - even when they
are all grown up. It's a rebellion of class.
No. Stop. Listen.
I know what you're thinking to yourself -
something like "this chick's outta her mind"
but I wouldn't be if I could just have your time.
No. Stop. Listen.
They have holes because like my ideas
they get worn out cycling around in my head
full of nothing but cobwebs and 1,000 tons of paper.
No. Stop. Listen.
I'm not homeless or poor, it's not to be rude
I just needed a way of validating my own rights
because no one else seems to have the time.
No comments:
Post a Comment