This is the fourth poem I’ve ever written in pencil. Partially because I want this to be perfect like the suburban kids who grew up on streets named Harvard and took trips to Berkeley because the zoo is open year round, but they had never seen a “real live” homeless person. I want this to be perfect like their test scores that result from teachers who inspire their students to achieve more… I want this to be perfect because I’m not; because my 8th grade Algebra teacher gave me a “C” so she wouldn’t have to see me next semester; because I was two signatures away from dropping out of high school during my Junior year while I was torn between drug dealing and God. I want this to be perfect because for my entire life college was a mirage— a dream they sold to us that would be “fully paid for once we were soldiers”. It requires no academic to realize that they sold US to the highest bidder! I’ve watched more people fall to angle dust than the angels and have somehow maintained a sweet heart although my mind may be bitter. My late night study sessions are often strategically interrupted by mechanical humming birds and screaming cars that only ever come with one message: “WEEWOO… WEWOU… WE WILL… TIKTUK… TITUO.. STOP YOU. WE WILL STOP YOU!” 

These harassers will testify to the strength of my will and boundless determination. I refuse to fall into the abyss that is only honest with the moon because I want to raise my children on Harvard and I want their teachers to inspire them to achieve more. They should only know the angels and not their dust. I want them to have hopeful eyes and easily trust; to maintain a sweet heart and easy mind. My wish for them is to understand the power of time. 

I do not write for myself, I speak for the poor and for this reason I beg you to forget my name and remember my story. I am in search of education, not glory.