The instructor said,

                Go home and write

                A page tonight.

                And let that page come out of you--

                Then, it will be true.

Is it really that easy?

I am seventeen, fatherless and was born in Upland.

I went to private school, a Catholic school and then here

to this school in the windy hills of Chatsworth.

I am an individual here.

The traffic on the 118, and then, on the 405, and then on the 5, and then on the 14,

a forty-five minute drive, then I reach the town of Santa Clarita.

Via Princessa, Jason, Flynn, I reach Karns.

Unit 61001, I walk up two flights of stairs

Eat my dinner, go to my desk, and write this page:

I don’t understand you nor you me.

I guess I’m not supposed to at my age.

I’m only supposed to be lazy, be selfish, and repeat.

But I see and hear and feel just like you.

I am somebody, you are too.

Who am I? Well, I cry laugh and live.

I like to eat pizza, play basketball, and hang out with my friends.

For my birthday I want Lakers tickets and Nike shoes,

And maybe even a brand new puppy.

I suppose being me means I’m young and naïve

that I do not like to always think about my future and what it could be.

Does this mean that I am destined to live on the streets?

I hope not, because this is me.

And what about you?

Are our tale and my tale really different?

Were you once me?

Sometimes I don’t want to understand you nor do you want to understand me.

But here’s the thing:

I was born in this country, so were you;

that’s American.

I’m not perfect and neither are you;

that’s human.

I’m going to die someday and so are you;

that’s life.

So, I'll live like we're supposed to be-- free

That's my poem, uh um, that’s me.