Mama, I hope that you’re proud of me.

I hope you’re proud of the way that I slave every day

And how sometimes I pray

Even though I don’t believe in a Jesus.

Mama, I hope your proud

I hope you're proud of my endless nights

And the terrible fights

And the way that I write this very poem,

Mama,

This is all for you.

It always has been.

I don't remember a moment of my education where I did it for me.

So. I hope you're proud.

Because if your not then my entire school experience was pointless because let me tell you don't remember a damn thing from it and I'm still slaving away.

Know I know what you're going to say.

“Education is the key.”

But what if school is the lock?

And can I ask what it opens besides disappointment and the pops of our hearts?

Mama.

If only you knew how things had changed.

If you knew about the headaches

And I'm not talking about physical pain I'm talkin' mental

The kind of pain that makes you want to do things

Stupid, irresponsible things, like cut, or die.

But ya know that's just me being a teenager, and everyone deals with that so it's nothing knew.

So stop being so damn lazy.

Get out from bed.

You got work to do.

Anit nothing wrong with you child except you ain't got no drive.

So then tell me, how am I supposed to have ambition when it's been drained of my very body so easily and smooth like a cold lemonade on a hot Arizona day.

So mama,

please tell me that your proud of me

Because there is hardly anything left

Of me.