Hey Mr. Principal,

Hey Mr. Smith,

I hope you sit comfortably –

On your plush office plinth,

With all your private accolades –

That no one could care about,

To the varsity trophies –

Earned years before the current gold drought,

Instead of peeking about the school,

Which without a fist you do rule,

More like a middle finger pointed in my face,

Thinking it’s cool as kids get beat up for their race –

Or religion,

Or that school shooter shooting up students like pigeons,

Even Ms. Widgens cares more about the kids,

Got Johnny Sanders to fulfill his desires with her kiss,

All the while the chess kids got no wits –

To withstand even a bit of competition,

New clubs, what a joke, even with a petition –

To you, all of them only sound like bitching,

Joy turns sour quick, like the Wicked Witch in her hat,

Melting just like that,

The flying monkeys in the administration got down pat –

How to get a teacher luncheon going, and eat until fat,

But can’t you see how our music program falls flat –

With sharp notes too many,

As gangs sharpen their knives at all, including class secretary,

And as for the others wary of being shot,

Stabbed, or f----d up by our teacher, too hot,

Should teach physics, yet instructs historical fiction,

Cause I don’t even know our President, but I sure got friction –

Just waiting to release,

Never being heard out, even by police –

Who look at me like a bunch of bees,

Wanting to zap anyone out of line with Tasers to smithereens,

Not worth more than even the ticks and fleas,

My mama could’ve aborted, but I whispered please –

Into her sub-conscious, well great,

Yet did I know when I’d awake –

My life would be reprobate –

For nine months of labor, too late –

To go back now and correct the mistake –

So I wait outside in the rain,

Hoping to be picked up, not hopelessly in pain,

But always futile, as everywhere I go, it follows, it came,

Because I’m that kid in the corner, out of luck,

Sleeping homeless on the floor of some old truck,

Abandoned by my family,

Prisoner of the state,

So poor can’t buy new soles –

So in holed shoes I walk in late –

To a room of pupils,

And every pupil stares,

Chortles, doesn’t care,

Maybe cause they got their own strife,

A messed up life,

Trying to grin with a dagger sheathed inside

Their very own backsides,

So words fade to black,

F--- Einstein, it’s not relativity that we lack,

But the simple care, concern of love,

That is always out of reach, held back.

So Hey Mr. Principal, 

Hey Mr. Smith,

If you even actually care why our grades look like shit,

Maybe if you’d unlock your bulletproof doors,

And walk down with me these very same floors,

You’d see my plight, every child’s horrors,

And stop asking, who, what, why, where, or how,

But start standing up, and say that this ends now.