Young and Different (Why I Write)



I was young, and I was Different

Even though I was odd, I was also still innocent

The agony, the deceit right in front of my eyes

Yet I was too blind, maybe even paralyzed

Paralyzed to the hurt to what I thought was all true

It was just an illusion, but I lived it through and through

Through all the confusion, through the knives in my back

I was 11 years old, why did I go through that?

I love my mom, she loved me too.

 Was she scared I was gay? The word faggot’s so crude,

Yes in general, but in other aspects as well.

Like saying it to your son when he can barely inhale.

An abomination, a sin, I say oh the fuck well. Just cause I love who I love I am going to hell.

Well, mommy I love you with all of my heart. But I need you to know my love is my art.

I was young, I was different and only I saw my talent

because you were too worried ‘bout me being a faggot

I got a lot from you mom, my eyes even my diva tendencies.

But I know that you knew that those things were not fair to me.    

 how did I get through that? Well, the obvious way

 it’s been through my art, been there from the beginning.

Creation wasn’t something I learned or needed to do,

it just came and I enjoyed knowing I had a unique point of view.

My art is my heart, I won’t let it go, and so is my sexuality watch my true colors show.

I’m young, I’m different. The way I will stay

But I’m also funny, smart and witty… growing up in MY own way.

MY light it shines, brighter than the rays of the sun.

 No one knows how proud I am of the person Albert’s become. 


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