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Back When I Was Kid,
March 26, 2011
my feet wiggling and squiggling,
searching for ground
where a spaghetti stain on your shirt gave you
street cred,
I learned to strike the guilty.
when you fall,
you hit the ground
not with your knees or your face,
bruising your dignity,
but with your fists and your palms.
show ‘em who’s boss, kid.
but now,
feet groaning and aching,
tired of the concrete,
where the stain of tears
doesn’t always dry clear,
what about heartbreak and headache?
who is to blame?
will a sting across the face
give you power
give you love?
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