You keep trying,

To build something in your life.

You talk of mad brilliant builders now,

Maybe someday they’ll actually start building.

But they won’t start until year 20.

It is year 11 and you have one night to write a poem.

You write,

To stay awake for hours on end in hallowed halls of sleepless blank bedrooms walls reeking of bordello fantasies and LED screen dancers.

You write,

To stay sane while bullies beat their fists bloody against paint chipped condo doors waiting for you to submit to the needle or the knife.

You write,

Because you know that their will always be those who will write better than you, talk faster than you, who set the mic and stage on fire with words charred by insight and years ahead of you.

You write,

To get better and one day share the stage with them and speak without me whispering in your ear telling you to be afraid of the bullies that touch you, shame you with Aryan curses for your last name, force homophobic kisses on your lips, and wrap your head in sweat-slicked boxers pulling your face to the locker room floor.

You write today,

To be appreciated.

You write today,

To stop me speaking in your head.

You speak tonight,

Because you know your cousin sits in his house typing with hands like twin suns burnt onto the keys as he creates his own poetry.

He has 70 years to be great.

You want one night to be good.

© 2014 Jared "I.J" Steinberg. All Rights Reserved.

#poetry