She was angry. Nothing unusual about that. Most teenagers are angry about something.
She wrote a poem. That was unusual. This angry girl did not seem like the poetry-writing type.
I now know there’s no such thing as a poetry-writing type.
Felix, for instance, was no Dunbar. He was no Tupac, either. But he wrote poetry.
…I scream to the top of my lungs
But there’s no one to hear it;
I spread my wings to fly,
But I’m too easily crushed
By the hard nature of this world.
Said once after a poker game,
I love you, Mom–
I remember saying I’d never love a white woman.
And the angry girl wrote this:
I hate school,
And if the walls could talk,
I bet they’d say
“I hate you, too.”
I wrote her a note, said that wasn’t true.
Felix was delivering pizza last I heard. Dylan–I think he played sports.
I wonder where she and her walls are now.
These halls are not my home.