2014 Get Lit Classic Slam

Finals Anthology

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CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL Coach: Laurie Kurnick Team: Celia Douglas, Erica Almond, Eduardo Sanchez, Jaspreet Kaur, and Mai Le

TOP SCORING TEAM – WINNERS OF THE CLASSIC SLAM!

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CLASSIC: “Falling: The Code” by Li Young Lee RESPONSE: “Sleeping City” by Mai Le

11 PM The city is asleep There is only the wind outside my window. After a while, the senseless tapping beings to sound like secret conversations. Tap Tap Tap Darkness is here. 11 PM The streetlights are standing still Guarding themselves against the blueness of the night. I feel the city in her heavy breathing, Her old lungs reach into the void of my dwelling Crying, begging for fresh new human lungs. This is just a vision but dream of it enough and it will be a nightmare I am afraid of the perpetual silence of 11 PM. Even the trees and bus stops are asleep The songs of the stations are gone now. Nobody is waiting for me Nobody is waiting for anybody Nobody Has anything to wait for... 11 PM In the next room My grandpa is sleeping, So are the graves of other soldiers.

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They are dreaming about the war, About metallic blood flowing on the field, About silver bullets Racing through the air, About airplanes Dropping silence into cities. Even in his sleep, Grandpa’s skin smells like gunpowder. I wonder If anyone ever touches him just to trace their fingers around our history, Feel the ache of his bones and the scars on his flesh Realized That this... Is everybody’s fate 11 PM The city is asleep After a while The senseless tapping on my window begins to sound like secret conversation...

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CLASSIC: “Freshman Class Schedule” by Jose Antonio Rodriguez RESPONSE: “Brown Dirt” by Eduardo Sanchez

I am Brown I am Brown like the dirt my people have been trudging on for years The dirt that is stirred up with each heavy brown step taken Lifting the dust and covering the sun Can’t tell the difference between dirt or people must be my imagination Working from sun up to sun down Not knowing the meaning of rest No time for hesitation Time is money no need for vacations We don't get minimum wage We're not yet considered part of this nation Breaking our backs yet our kids get sick We have no money for medicine or vaccinations Yet we keep on working cuz there’s no breaking our aspirations I am Rhythm I am the rhythm that fills our souls Keeps us dancing letting go all our woes The rhythm that flows Out of guitars and into our hearts Its reminds us of home Our places which make us smile when we feel low We sing along till the night grows old And the sun is ready to punish us some more I am Spices I am the spices that coats our meals From tamales to huaraches It’s our orgasmic pleasure It’s what gives us flavor

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Our charismatic character It fills our stomachs when we need fuel Our tastes buds get aroused When saliva fills our mouths At the sight of chiles and sliced carrots and onions swimming in a pool of its own juices I am Spanish I am the language of my grandparents From rolled "R's" to la ñ Something I keep alive with my parents It’s the something that makes us distinct Colonizing through language By tongue or through ink It refreshes our memories keeps us awake and aware Keeps us tied in to the world that we left but still care Its generations of family rolling off of our tongues It’s our way of expressing our love through our lung Que viva la raza I am Latino I carry all the Latinos on my back Cuz if one of us messes up, Our whole progression steps back All our hard work would crumble tainting our reputation Generations to build can be destroyed in just seconds So I look closely at the steps that I'm taking I want to be the one who shoots us forward Not the one who drops our progression lower We are nothing to others but dark skin and dark hair The government says we matter but they don't really care I want to be more than brown dropouts Be more than dark hair I want to be a symbol of everything on earth that is fair Working hard to get well paid Excelling in school graduating self-made We as a whole are destined to make this We are brown dirt but we'll rise up for Greatness.

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CLASSIC: “What If” by Shel Silverstein RESPONSE: “Relax” by Erica Almond, Celia Douglas, and Eduardo Sanchez

Why are there so many questions? Why can’t you just stop worrying? Answer them your own damn self. You want an A on that test? Go study your ass off for it If you want to grow taller go hang upside down by your feet Even growing a millimeter will mean success The smaller the head, the less money you spend on hats If there is poison in your cup, well you lived a good life. Let’s say you do get sick and die, just think about how beautiful your funeral will be If your parents get divorced at least you’ll have two new rooms If green hair does grow on your chest, just call yourself eco friendly Better yet call yourself the Grinch, here’s a present, You saved Christmas in the end anyways If no one likes you, just unfollow them on Facebook If the bus is late, then just walk, its great exercise Don’t worry about your teeth, braces fix everything nowadays Go buy the best underwear at Victoria’s so if your pants do tear, it won't be a secret anymore. Forget about fishing, you can buy it from the store I would love if a Whatif crawled inside my ear, I’ll just have a new pet I think I’ll name it Toby. Even if you get struck by lightning, keep dancing in the rain Strike again, Whatifs, with all your power I don’t care if it’s right now, this afternoon, tonight, or even tomorrow morning. I’m ready. Bring it.

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CLASSIC: “Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell” by Marty McConnell RESPONSE: “Lost” by Mai Le, Jaspreet Kaur, and Celia Douglas

I can feel my blood electrocuting the thought – I want you to leave You Really don’t want him to leave My body jerks, flinching under the 15 layers of emotions I use as makeup There’s a mask that hides your eyes and distorts you smile I always believed it rained because God’s soul turned cold Froze into ice His heart melted into teardrops falling from the sky You burn yourself through the night, waiting The thoughts won’t come out of my body Conflicted Trapped And now you’re on the floor imprisoned by unnamed burdens It never made sense to be how someone who loved me so much Could walk away and never look back I want you to fight like I’m the most important thing - There is nothing glorious about this There is no tea, no bathtub, no parade We are all beggars For some reason my prayers would always end up as questions instead Because no one would answer them quickly enough There is a frenzy of fear standing in between When our paths merge, I am lost. who was I kidding? You kept changing the lock and I never found the key I swam In the blood of a Saturday night. Breathed in the ink of your love letter, and drank your soft, gentle voice.

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Take down the word goodbye off the wall as we fall. Hear the bones breaking as we hit bottom In the darkness I realized that I got the sight of the stars mixed up for your eyes Got the brightness of the rising sun mixed up for your smile Got an angel mixed up for a fallen soul We spend our days chasing the snowflakes that never touch the ground Floating in an endless sea of white and empty

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ALHAMBRA HIGH SCHOOL Coach: Dorothy Burkhart Team: Rebecca Garcia, Diego Sanchez, Joseph Ney-Jun, Sania Luna, Tina Le, and Vivyana Prado

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CLASSIC: “The Lies Started” by Jimmy Santiago Baca RESPONSE: “More Known Than Anonymous” by Diego Sanchez

TOP SCORING POET OF THE NIGHT

I am terrified of becoming just another tombstone without a voice Just another stone cut into a specific shape engraved with my name and my numbers I feel the presence of concerned eyes looking at me and I place my lead filled palms over my closed freckled eyelids just attempting to free the answers to all of their questions. As I sit there in silence, my patience is a balloon engulfed with static and vexation created by those who surround me. Each tick of the clock casts images and optics of myself, a powerless little brother sitting quietly with his back to a closed door trying to escape Trying to escape the concerned voices that perpetually ask each other, “Did she take her medication?” with fear in their words because if their daughter refuses to take the FDA approved stability My sister transforms. Yaya, puts on the cloak of invisibility. Her bipolar reality turns into an abstract world with clear logic behind every skewed thought. To a certain extent I understand her. Each time she has a breakdown home turns into hell, and when I enter the inferno my veins are filled with gasoline. Just one spark can ignite my underground temper. I explode. I lose myself. I need help.

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Instead of speaking to a professional to “let go,” I find where I can unwind in my own room, surrounded by sky blue walls that tremble with the notes that escape my speakers. There, I find brief peace. Music soothes the savage beast. Locked away from reality I started the habit-forming passion of giving my heartbeat a different rhythm Harmony of joy would echo throughout my chest and into my mind. Spark. The flame burns the crystal-covered happiness. The first thoughts of each disoriented morning would be, How can I escape today? At war with my conscience Suffering became tolerance Guilt became innocence Then I ask, why have you left me? I look to the motionless sky. Nobody cared. No one would notice the character I created to appear typical. The faceless badge and brain blaster attached to the hip did notice finding me behind the wheel that contained my narcotic love. The future of another young Chicano boy was set in ink. My fingerprints are in the system. My fingerprints are in the system. Trying to kill time inside of a secluded mind a voice called to me: “Everyone has to die but not everyone has to go to jail.” I now understand this predestined path I travel has not been without friction I am not alone with a static-filled life. In this moment, poetry is the handcrafted tool I use to extricate from the flooded sewer of addiction These words can be a sanctuary to others lost in their own troubles. My voice is in the system. My voice is set in ink.

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CLASSIC: “Stone” by Charles Simic RESPONSE: “Good Intentions” by Joseph Ney-Jun

I am a Stone. I do not have to be good. I do not have to walk on my knees repenting. I tell myself this, and I believe. But if I believe then why do I wake at night? At its darkest hour, At my darkest hour! Why do I wake And sweat? The stony, concrete walls glare at me and creep closer, The light shrinks and the shadows swell as if I were back in my cell. All, screaming at me “IT WAS YOUR FAULT!” I know that voice because I hear it every day, It’s me. Let me tell you of despair, Mine. But you need not tell me yours, because while your world spins on, Mine is breaking to PIECES around me, And I am truly powerless to save it! Let me tell you of my anger. A fury, so unmatched in POWER That if it could be harnessed, the sun would become a relic to my energy Because no star can out-burn hatred! Let me tell you why I WAKE and SWEAT! Because, I am guilty, Because I, am seeking redemption. For not being there when you needed me,

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For being too weak or too blind to see you. I feel guilt for the things I should have done. And I know it is useless to think about the things I cannot change, But I CAN CHANGE THEM. But I don’t. I’m not Superman, I’m not the Hero of Time, I’m not the Doctor. I can’t be everywhere, and just this once, not everybody lives. I wish, I could be Hercules. To hold the sky above your head would be a privilege! There would be no trickery, no asking for padding, If I could shoulder all of your burdens I would! But I can’t. Because the day you push all your burdens on another is the day you stop growing. But let’s be honest here. You stopped growing years ago. Your burdens grow heavy like the sky upon your head, I see now, That you never held up the heavens, You were just being crushed by all of your hell! You can no longer bear the title of Atlas, And you are trying to force me! While I appreciate your valiant attempts to make me a better man than you were, You’ve already failed because I am everything like you. You raised me the only way that you knew how, The way that your father raised you. But your father raised you with the back of his hand, and the tip of his belt, and words that cut you through you like you were hot butter. I’m sure that he had good intentions Just as I’m sure that you have good intentions Tell me Dad, was it all good intentions when you threatened to cut off my fingers, well I knew you weren’t serious, but just because I was biting my nails? Tell me Dad, was it all good intentions when you made me stand against the wall until I couldn’t walk, And then you made me walk to school? Tell me Dad, was it all good intentions when Mom had to hide all the belts in the house,

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because you couldn’t stop using them on me, And when you couldn’t find the belts you switched to your hands instead? Was it all good intentions when you tried to make me strong by turning me a stone like you? I don’t hate you. I know that you’re not dark inside because I have seen sparks fly when we clash together. I forgive you. I forgive you! But I can never forget! Because if I forget, I forget the one thing that separates us! The fear, of being a man like you, A man with good intentions.

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CLASSIC: “Ways of Talking” by Ha Jin RESPONSE: “Grief Counseling” by Rebecca Garcia

They used to try and make me want to talk about it and every week in elementary school I was called into some grown up's office Where I was forced to vent any feeling because it was a way of dealing with my kind of situation. People go to school for this type of thing Earning themselves degrees in trying to make people speak about their problems and feelings Unpeeling them like onions in therapy but in elementary school they don't call it that. They call it grief counseling and when someone in your family dies they handle you like a box with “fragile” written on it but they still expect you to want to talk about it like it’s easy to say you're fatherless like it’s easy to say you're a mess but it’s not. So you silently wait for something to say but nothing has come out yet and their questions linger in the air and you just hope that maybe they'll forget and if you're lucky they’ll leave them there but it’s just one of those moments where time seems frozen because they insist on trying to make you unbroken and making you open up to conversation like their years of psychology education didn't teach them enough patience don't they know that you're not ready? Just like you weren't ready to let go and say goodbye There wasn't enough time to fit everything you wanted to say into the morning he died. How do you fit every apology and thank you,

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every memory, laugh, and promise into one sentence? How do you say it and mean it? and I know if I ask they probably won’t even have an answer, so I'd rather not talk. I'd rather just imagine the impatient tapping of their pens as a tap dancer who is okay with my silence and defiance of not wanting to vent. That dances to the still quietness of my breath and teaches me to forget the stares that torment my lack of speech and inability to grieve. They say my un-cooperation leads them to believe that I am twelve and mildly depressed Just because I don't know how to express anything. Sometimes the question what’s going on in my head and they try to imbed the idea that maybe voicing these thoughts will help to understand and accept except all I understand is that there is no oral sound that can possibly round up enough impossible miracles to bring him back, and I don't want to accept that. And I think all this as they wait for a reply but instead I take my time thinking of other things and blinking back memories that have somehow become memorized like the thousands of poems in the back of mind. I’ve tried to write but no formation of words can ever make it sound right and no diction can stop the affliction of missing him. I miss him. I want to tell them I miss him but I feel like that's kind of a given. The clock in the room makes more noise than I do. It's ticking along to the song that the pen sings scribbling on a yellow pad spelling out "she's still not cooperating" and when the big hand flirts with the twelve it marks an hour of me sitting here and staring at the bookshelf until it's time for this grown up to finally announce, "I think that’s all the time we have for today" and every time my reply is always the same, "Good, because that's all I had to say"

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CLASSIC: “There is No Word for Goodbye” by Mary Tall Mountain RESPONSE: “The Language of the Earth” by Sania Luna, Tina Le, and Vivyana Prado

I think with words The porch is rustic, the clothes are vintage, the lemonade is sour Our world in its entirety has always been associated with words. Even our identities are recorded with words. From the moment our names are written on our birth certificate To the moment we greet someone and say “Hi I’m Tina, Hi I’m Sania, Hi I’m Vivyana” To the moment they are engraved on our tombstone We are defining ourselves with words. I think with words. Yet, there is a language that does not require words. Was not created to uniform our methods of expression or to teach us the disgrace of misinterpretation A language that exists to accept, forgive, cherish, and embrace. The language of the earth. It’s that night we were going to see the Christmas lights and I saw angry and annoyed faces turn into laughter as my brothers and i left yelling "scrooge!" every time a house didn’t have lights in Candyland. It’s the conversation I had with my best friend while we were each hugging venetian pillows. She could not bear to be in her own skin,

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But no words seemed to help. I became her pillow and hugged her So she knew not everyone was against her. It is that night my three-year-old self was crying because the shadows were going to engulf me so my brother lifted my weight out of my crib and comforted me to sleep. The shadows became moonlight streaming in through the eleven windows in my room. We were forced to abandon the language of the earth. The day I turned three, I learned I would go to school and expand my vocabulary to encompass a new foreign tongue that was supposed to help me verbalize my thoughts with those around me. Those sounds were forced together in order to educate us. In an effort to capture, label, and simplify but in reality it isolates, segregates, and groups. This language created the word black when all I saw was Lila. It created the word retarded when all I saw was Izac. It created the word different when all I saw was new. It created ways to decapitate me, isolate my brain from my heart and my feet which were planted firmly on the earth. But I had to move, and since the day I first walked through the rusted gate, it has been hard to imagine what goes on in my mind without the sounds of words We were taught to type trivial hieroglyphics on the back of our minds We were taught to stand up and speak only when spoken to We were taught to tremble when sharing our words Public speaking has become our number one fear. I think with words. I have forgotten the Language of the Earth- My mouth has said goodbye to my heart. I speak with words, but words are just words, and sometimes words do not suffice. Sometimes people don’t hear the emotions behind the words. They only hear sounds that they can’t seem to wrap their minds around to really listen and understand, because my words are not meaningless. I am only trying to translate my beating heart into a rhythm that can be understood through my words, but my words cripple me. I am taught to speak with my mouth

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And not with my heart. I think with words. This has allowed adults to ignite flames in my once vibrant forest then smothered their black block letters upon my then blank, bare ground The colors of this new language are limited to black and white. The colors of the language of the earth are The brown mud my cousins and I used to mold into cakes The sweet yellow corn my grandma cooks because it’s my favorite The purple trumpet flowers in my mother’s garden that bloom on my birthday. The red feathers of the parrot in the animal sanctuary The tan Chihuahua my dad surprised me with The gold stars and the midnight blue sky in my little brothers eyes. The colors that leave a person speechless Feeling like a forest floor in the midst of spring. I still think with words. Tonight we spit words in hopes to describe the language of the earth. Let the rhythm of our words echo the beating of our hearts . We dream We think We speak the Language of the Earth.

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TRIUMPH CHARTER HIGH SCHOOL Coach: Kelly Thomas and Rebecca Boss Team: April Wells, Giselle Miranda, Jesse Leos, Juan Rosales, and Kareli Flores

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CLASSIC: “I am Learning to Abandon the World” by Linda Pastan RESPONSE: “I am Learning to Abandon My Race” by April Wells

I am learning to abandon my race. Because I was trying to help you, help me, help the world. But I was a man Ha Scratch that One year from a man with dreams and ambitions that I couldn’t live up to because you see me as a villain instead of a super hero Too bad I wasn’t fast enough to out run that stereotype Because all that neighborhood watch wanted to do was put my lights out. But god saw me in this perfect image. But all people wanted to do was see my negatives before my positives can develop. And I know you have heard this poem before, poems about black boys and neighborhoods street corner and gunshots. Where they run from bullets like Olympic athletes competing for the rest of their life. I know I heard it a thousand times Over and over again Each word a bullet Each poem a gunshot And nothing but tragedies repeats. But just because I am learning to abandon my race doesn’t mean I have to Because I am a women A black women with dreams and ambitions no one thought I would succeeded. But I wont give up because I choose dreams over stereotypes

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water over liquor superheroes over villains I wish I can tell people that hate was just a choice A choice where stereotype wore hoods and stole from liquor stores. Because he was trying to help you, help me, help him, help the world But I hope one day he can learn to rest in peace. Because then we can put poems like these to sleep

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CLASSIC: “What the Orphan Inherits” by Sherman Alexie RESPONSE: “Echoes” by Jesse James Leos

Don’t forget me, Don’t forget me, Don’t, forget me. My father’s eyes would whisper to me every time he’d reach for the tequila bottle, He’d drink ‘till his heart would caramelize in addiction. Our house would become a racetrack, where buzzards, omitted from my father’s mouth would circle my mother and I, “Tu eres mi enemiga puta!” “You are my enemy bitch!” They would all devour my mother with the constant phrase, then his eyes would snare at me telling me your next. But I could not bear his claws shredding my drywall skin. Tattooing the devil’s handprint on my face, So I ran. I found a path, But I could still hear the echoes. Don’t forget me. Don’t forget me. Don’t forget me! They became distorted each time they tweak and manipulate into a gruesome cackle Regurgitating shriveled cries as if getting their limbs pulled apart, Each ligament wrapped itself around my neck, depriving me of air as I run. I came across the Grimm. He held back his scythe and said it wasn’t my time. So I continued and reached a large glass door, The voices rushed past me and collapsed the fragile door, Through the rain of shards, I see myself,

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Young. Innocent. The time my father sliced the corners of my lips and ransacked me against two bicycles. The internal scar began to pulsate against my cheek, The echoes beat me, Turning my eyes still, Glassy with popped emotions. I walked up to him, looked him in the hollowed sight and whispered, Don’t forget me.

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CLASSIC: “Guidebook to Nowhere” by Jeffrey McDaniel RESPONSE: “Lifeproof” performed by Giselle Miranda, Kareli Flores, and Juan Rosales (written by the TCHS Poets) Oh my god! Did you hear? Oh my god! Oh my god! You don't even know! Hold on, hold on, let me finish this text. No listen! Nooooooo!!!!! You should’ve gotten Lifeproof For $89.99 we guarantee our product to be waterproof, dirtproof, shockproof, snowproof It doesn't snow in LA! Lifeproof “We take the worry out of living your lifestyle!” Sometimes I wish I had a plastic case. To protect me from the heartaches, heartbreaks, the headaches, the noise my brother makes my echoing mistakes, people who are nothing but fake, the calories in that damn delicious cake. Where’s our lifeproof case? Life proof the proof is in the protection These days we are more concerned about protecting our cell phones than protecting ourselves Yesterday I was walking and texting and I almost got hit by a car. At least your phone would have survived We look at our cell phones so much, I have forgotten what eye contact feels like. iPhones, Androids, iPads Lifeproof is compatible with all makes and models We promise complete confidence and total freedom,

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You don’t understand how much that text message hurt. That Instagram post almost brought me to tears. That kick message kicked me in the ass. Too bad our phones can’t cry with us. But we’re waterproof. No tears in this selfie. Did you hear the dirt? She was wearing what? Who made out at the party? Clearly she wasn’t thinking. He has a girlfriend. Oh! He’s such an asshole! But we’re dirtproof. Keep gossip off your phone. UCLA didn’t accept me I bombed the SATs I can’t believe I’m failing art. These unexpected things keep happening Why is this such a shock? But we’re shock proof. We will help you see it coming. Life isn’t Lifeproof. Our Battery life is more urgent than life span. Studies have shown we check our phones 115 times a day I only have 5% left! I need to make a call. I need to write this post. I need to send this text. Lifeproof we’ll save you from all this crap. Technology has become the only natural thing in our lives Do you even know where the desert is? No but I heard there’s Cacti, it pricks like the glass shards of a shattered screen. Mirrors, our phones are not a reflection of us. Butterflies, I have forgotten what excitement feels like without a ring tone. The sky, invisible lifelines wander through the sky. Where we try to reach each other by satellite. There is no longer a separation between what real and what’s man made.

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Lifeproof, we’re always ready for what comes next. You know what? So are we. I think we’ll take the risk.

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CLASSIC: “Sexy Balaclava” by Daphne Gottlieb RESPONSE: “Revolution” performed by April Wells, Giselle Miranda, and Kareli Flores (written by the TCHS Poets) We are Live from Los Angeles where an unbelievable 10% percent of people are living on the street. In their empty hands unemployment has become a curse word. Political hypocrites, hold hands out with breadcrumbs, Then slap us once we become dependent There is a cycle, paycheck, food, rent, nothing, wait. We are live in New York At 11:11 pm the time to make wishes But there’s no hope left in the air 500 bodies lying on the freezing sidewalk Keep your change, we need a revolution. We are live in Chicago Where three million people remain stuck in their comfort zone Not speaking truth as if it was a prayer In this windy city courage has become a last resort. Three minutes to the revolution We Are The Emergency Broadcast News We are here To give America A voice A choice A chance to rejoice The underdogs have waited long enough It’s time to unleash the revolution Have each riot more honest than the next Revolution is not pretty But it can it can be beautiful. Love is the answer, yet we‘re still asking questions.

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The price of being poor is way too high, yet we’re still looking for change Courage still hides in this lost vessel in our chest, yet we our heartbeat grows Louder And louder And louder And louder Two minutes to the revolution. So what does poverty look like in America? Poverty is still an urban myth. This is not a movie, no one from Hollywood is coming to save us. The worries of not being able to tame The beast in our stomach Is at its end The kids in my neighborhood wander with war torn clothes and hand me down debt Let broken toy guys be the timber Stopping your foot down As loud as you can Make the earth shake Shake enough to raise attention There should be no more distress Over our next meal Over our next rent Over our next shower Our next is a question mark too hard to swallow With no heat you would be surprised how fast a tear can freeze And where is the love? There are seven billion people On this planet And some of us Still don't think love exist If only we'd put as much effort Into loving each other As we do hurting each other The scars would start to heal Let’s remember The cadence of our heartbeat And begin to march as one But are the American people brave enough?

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To ignite riots of meaning and purpose We must first have the courage to Speak the truth, to overcome our fears We have seen nightsticks taking the law into their hands We have seen courage blasting off from the end of a gun Let the smog dissolve into the air and create a pollution of trust These tear gasses cry our pain There is no need for a gas mask why mask Why mask America with cowardly camouflage This broken nation is in need of triage The evening news is just another mirage Where we collect our fears like an eager entourage Don’t let these broken pieces write our sabotage Let love, courage and riches pen this collage Revolution is not another bullet we need to dodge This is Emergency Broadcast News Calling the American people to get upset Change the channel, Raise the volume Smash the remote controls. Revolution is not pretty But it can be beautiful. America can you hear us? America we can’t scream any louder? America can you hear our screams? This is the emergency broadcast news We have lost contact

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FOUR FREEDOMS Coach: Raul Jr. Herrera Team: Alondra Dimas (Alhambra High School), Jairo Perez (Alliance Collins Family School), Ian Kohn (Holmes School), and Ryan Longmuir (LACES

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CLASSIC: “Fairytale Logic” by A. E. Stallings RESPONSE: “Maybe” by Ryan Longmuir

My parents never read me fairytales, all they said was maybe. Yes, you can become an astronaut, maybe. Of course, you can touch the stars, maybe. Maybe was their way of telling me, "I don't know, and don't blame me if I'm wrong." Maybe was my blanky. Quilted from make believe, Stitched together with childish seriousness, maybe tucked me in at night So life couldn't snarl its teeth from under my bed. So reality wasn't so cold. You didn't tuck me in at night You didn't care to wean me off of maybe. If you thought honesty hurt, letting me find out on my own was like ripping the floor out from under me with nothing to salvage but trust issues and a bad sense of direction. Maybe became my anti-depressant. Push down turnt up, I was never secluded in its subscription. We didn't swallow for second chances, Only to numb the odds. Shooting for sevens, Maybe rolled out caskets. Maybe was never my friend.

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Maybe was too ambiguous for his own good because for a kid who scrounged for stable footing, you set him on a cliff. You sent him to slay dragons with weapons of chance. You condemned him to the moon with noting to breath but doubt , Maybe was fucking irresponsible. Pillows and skylights, Hands too small to grasp dreams caught between constellations , Cast to berth without fairytales You left me to me own devices. You left me to my own devices, So I built myself a kingdom. Where every King has his queen, Where every frog redeems himself as a prince. Where fathers come home at night and families eat together. Where affairs of brown, green and aluminum are never mistaken for love and you don't need liquid courage for safe passage in a world where your success is already inscribed between pages on a bedside table. In a kingdom of impossible asks I'd give anything to be scum I'd give anything just to be the villain I'd give anything just to leave this all behind for asylum between 2 boards and a join. because at least I could skip to the end.

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CLASSIC: “Women Want Fighters for their Lovers” by D. H. Lawrence RESPONSE: “Intergender Relations” by Ian Kohn

If a fighter is what a lady wishes to obtain, then I say I’m fighting a war within myself, just to coax my conscience to let me say to them more than merely a dismissive “Hi”. As if I believe that truthfully I am a blighter, amounting little more than to the soot a damsel scrapes off her labor boots, without a care at all if she hurt its body or feelings if it were a living being. In fact, I’d wager to say that that amounts to how I’m left feeling when a girl I wished to court walks away after an offer to partake in small talk is refused by her, because it is said, since I’m socially inept, that small talk is the basis for an in-depth conversation then a friendship— That and a mourning, inconsolable chill in my stomach spawns that tells me no one will ever care to get to know I have distinctiveness. No, I was not a tiny Peterlet having a panic attack in my cerebrum, because I’m six feet tall, and my confidence was enough to enable me to greet her. Nor am I narcissistic and implying that I’m what I would call, a male equivalent to arm candy. But I feel that a person of the female gender, which has established its preference for company over isolation, can at least look beyond the shyness embodied in this Autistic spectrum facade, and acknowledge the facts that your trends are not my trends. I would rather insist that the big bang happened due to sheer coincidence, than accept the hypocritical word of God, and that what you see as a pointless school assignment,

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I see as a further step toward an incommensurable future. But if you insist keenly that I take to honing my biceps and pectoral muscles to become a veritable knight covered in skin-deep armor so that when I hug a person, they feel might and not affection, you know as much about romance as girls know about me. And now I’m accustomed to being cleaved to the seating of a bench, five meters away from a love interest’s flesh. I try to eat my meal and hope that the most meager look at her can be snatched without her spotting me and speculating I am wishing with her assistance to “get funky.” To me, affection will never lie in tapping a lady’s ass, but rather gliding my aether extremities up the epidermal region of her two hips, which are connected to an ample posterior, relishing every bit of her existence, with the magnum opus being a mind that connects to my own like an electrical outlet to a plug. A seeming impossibility with regard to me and another male. And then, I tell to them with a Burgundy heart full of the intention not of consummation, but of unification, let us be together. Unlike any other relationship a male can have with myself. Whereas a boy will glibly talk about lewdness and television shows deemed masculine, a girl will fuse her speech with the emotion of a dog attached to its owner. Being beautiful is just a stepping-stone toward interest. Being smart is the capstone of the tower of a relationship with. But being out of a relationship just insures that I will still be a fighter fighting for the possibility, Of befriending you.

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CLASSIC: “Mi Problema” by Michelle Serros RESPONSE: “Dreamers” by Alondra Dimas

In America, California es el Estado donde ‘se cumplen tus suenos’ ‘Where your dreams come true.’ In my suenos there is no racism There is no skin color There are people. When you look at my you only see color. You see 5’3” light skinned red hair. You see white, black, brown, and yellow. I don’t want you to look at me and say, “White!” Look at me and say, “Alondra.” When I tell you, “I’m Mexican.” Don’t think, “Dirty wetback.” Think, “Strength.” Because you don’t know How hard it is for My people to get here. You don’t know how much they have to abandon. When I tell you, I speak Spanish, Don’t assume I learned it in high school, Where they teach you shit, and call it “proper” Spanish. “Como si el espanol que yo hablo es corriente y inapropiado. Por que el espanol es mi primer lengua y el ingles Es Segundo.” Spanish is my first tongue and English is second. When you tell a Hispanic, Speak English, this is America. I hope you know Mexico is part of America. When you call me a ‘Beaner’ Remember that it is my culture that feeds you. We are the hands that plant the seeds for you, So that you can stuff your sinful mouths with our labors.

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We live in a society where being different is Shameful. Where being Mexican means drop-outs Means pregnancy, means cholos, means narcotraficantes. Where racist jokes have become Where alienation and segregation have begun to rise From their graves. Back to the times where the paliduchos stole the land From My people. Back too when stealing was finding. Genocides were insecticides And We were the vermin. My mother tells me, “Mija nunca olvides de donde vienes, Nunca olvides tu cultura.” Never forget where you come from, Never forget your culture. Because I come from a white Mexican women And a chocolate dipped Mexican man. I come from a mother and father, From Maria and Fransico. My blood says Mexican. My culture says Freedom America says, “Illegal Immigrant.” My people come here with nothing up their sleeves But the border patrol beats them as if they had guns up their sleeves When all they have is hope. My people fought to create the 'Dream Act' But dreams are being shattered left on the freeways of broken dreams. Spirits are being subdued left in front of Home Depot. Tongues are being disjointed left on the doorsteps in front of school. In America English is your tongue. In America California es el estado donde se cumplen los suenos. Where your dreams come true. In my suenos there is no racism. There is no skin color. There are people. Just people.

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CLASSIC: “Men” by Maya Angelou RESPONSE: “Women” by Alondra Dimas, Jairo Perez, and Ryan Longmuir

B: We are men A: Some guys my age think I am ass and tits. J: Probably just the party girl. R: Or a mouthless trophy. J: Clean your tough boots on their Flimsy, emotional rugs. R: Because women were meant to be door mats All: Stepped on A: Break their soul's bones. J: Build thrones on their pathetic Castle stones. A: For princesses and queens B: They definitely are not. A: They're just meat, objects, Mere possessions R: Like dogs B: We’ll feed you when we want to. We’ll beat you when we want to because we are men. A: I am a woman. That means I must have Elegant shoulders, good posture, manners. B: Insecurities. It probably means I must always look my best. Wear dresses, and speak, well… All: Like a woman. R: I am a man, I was made to be All: Stone blooded, cold blooded J: A solider on and off the battlefield R: My biological weapon B: Is my manhood A: It couldn't possibly mean, “sweatpants chillin with no

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makeup on,” as Drake would say. Because doing that probably means bad hygiene And not caring about what others think. Let me let you in on a little secret… I hate wearing makeup. B: Disgusting A: I love wearing my pajamas all day. B: Pathetic A: Hell I would probably wear them to school If I could. But they think I'm just All: ass and tits R: I was only taught to look at the exterior J: That having a heart for a man is deemed inferior B: We don’t love you the way we should. A: I am a woman B: We are men A: I am a woman B: We are men A: I am a woman B: We are men A: People ask me how I can Stand in front of a hundred people And talk about IT. How I can describe what happened to me And not cry in front of them. B: “How do you cope with it?” A: They ask. My doctor looks at me And he says I look fine J: “A healthy teenager.” A: Because he sees the smile on my face. But I’m beginning to crumble away. B: We are men I remember how hard it was to say... I was raped. People were telling me how pale I’d become. B: We are men A: The needle on the weight scale falling like the tears That fell down my shirt. B: We are men A: Tumbling down my cheeks because They didn’t want to be kept inside B: We are men? A: I am a woman! I can nurture a wounded animal,

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A man's broken heart, And heal it until it's tranquil, Peaceful, All: Loving just as she is. A: I contain divine, celestial love, Capable of restoring what can't be restored. B: women are restoration A: Capable of calming what can't be calmed. B: Women are calming A: Capable of strengthening what can't be strengthened. B: Women are strength A: Capable of unifying what can't be unified. B: Women are unification A: We’re all just as equal All: Break J: The illusion All: Break R: The confusion A: So before you write me off with little to no consideration remember we’re responsible All: For your creation!

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Bonus Poems

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YOUTH OPPORTUNITIES HIGH SCHOOL CLASSIC: “On Children” by Khalil Gibran RESPONSE: “Trust Me” by Tashi Brown and Jessy Rosales

Parents forget they were once children too To them, you’re still that first grader who needs protecting from the monsters in the closet, hiding from the boogie man under the bed To them, we said our first words just yesterday – not 16 years ago The first time we scraped our knees was the first time they realized they couldn’t protect us from life They did all they could to keep us safe… “Watch your feet on that grass” “Don’t run too fast” “There might be broken glass” “Don’t talk to strangers–that’s dangerous” “Don’t open the door when someone knocks” “It might be El Cu-Cuy!” “Just wait until your dad comes home” “Listen to your mama” And whatever you do, fear La Chancla I don’t know about you, but for me, it was the belt “It’s for your own good” “Just trust me” But now it’s 2014 and the monsters live in the streets, anticipating the next adolescent sacrifice The boogieman dons a blue uniform the threat of his name scarier than El Cu-Cuy and La Llorona combined You used to tell me not to play with sharp toys – that’s dangerous

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Now you tell me not to hang with my friends – you’ll end up dead or in jail like them When I ask you how you know, you say, “Just trust me” Grandma, I didn’t come through you but from you Everything from the way I look to the way I speak is borrowed from your daughter Nothing about me is original You can’t even get my name right I hate that I remind you of her mistakes So I overcompensate with the grades she failed to pull You tell me “stop being so sensitive” But how can I not be when your words are sharper than the razorblades I used to dull the pain of your expectations? I’m surprised you don’t see my tongue bleed I bite it enough around you that the words I want to tell you get caught in my throat but I found the words That’s why I write, to prove that I am more than your expectations I am my own aspirations Please trust me to know who I am Mom and Dad, I know you want the best for me but please stop pressuring me Forgive me for not living your dreams I have my own goals and destiny I have my own personality, yet you point out my flaws Everything I do is wrong You tell me my murals are just tagging My creative voice is just me bragging You took me to some psychiatrist when you’re to blame for the scars on my wrist I was just trying to grow some wings It was the only way I knew how I’ve flown farther than your farthest dreams I’ve already passed where you wanted to be Asking me to change will only disappoint you more All I ever needed was your love and support Mom and dad, We know our own futures You cannot see the arc of the arrow But trust it will fly swiftly

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It could not soar without your stability, from which to launch our destiny You just need to learn to trust me Trust me

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SAN GABRIEL HIGH SCHOOL CLASSIC: “No More Clichés” by Octavio Paz RESPONSE: “Tulips Over Roses” by Alex Luu

“I like you so much, I wanna punch you in the face just to make sure you’re real” That’s what you told me on our first date. Which makes me question both my safety and how you handle real life situations, asking for validation of the truth by punching anything you see. Like “Is Diet Coke really zero calories? I don’t know let me see.” I question you. And I like that. Because it’s these quirky things that make me like you even more These overarching questions waiting for answers to be spoken To open these closed doors of yours To dig deep within the labyrinth of your mind, And no matter how much I try, I still get lost in your eyes But not because of the beauty but because of the truths you try to hide Swollen bags under the cups of your eyes just trying to keep awake A weak smile to compensate for the lack of sleep just to keep happy Balancing schoolwork with family life, a fine National Qualifying Speech and Debater, with a second job as a tutor, teaching kids their subtractions and sums, and there are actually some things you can teach me to keep things in mind. And I can’t help but st-st-stutter over my lines, just because you’re just so amazing, it’s taking me time to organize my thoughts into words, my feelings into the curves of your smile because you deserve every compliment I give, this strong willed five ft. tall Latina that hungers for change

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but has a great taste in Chinese cuisine. You see. We act like magnets. Opposites that attract as if I’m the magnifying glass that sees in depth, and you’re the telescope that sees the whole, but we break into a 20/20 vision when our lines of sight that once divided us crosses each other in a precision indescribable by most, because we don’t think the same but what we have in common is pain. And the tears on your cheeks speak volumes against society’s definition of beauty, breaking past boundaries of bad boyfriends who could never see you as half the woman I see you now. So instead, I offer nothing less than special to the woman who keeps me amazed So today, no more clichés No more bouquets of roses, because I know you like tulips No more buying you things in pink, because your favorite color is green No more dates to a theater watching chick flicks, because this chick likes horror films No more asking you to dances with paper posters in front of a crowd at school that obligate you to say yes Because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me And you deserve not just better, but different. Because I’m not your knight in shining armor And you’re not my princess in distress And yet we’ve found treasure in the warmth of our chests Our lips pressed together, igniting enigmas at the curiosity of our touch. A fairytale story never told twice. We are two youths converged in our roads away from innocence And our steps forward will be the ones less taken Because every day with you is something new, something different, something mutual in the hidden truthfulness of our times together, answers embedded in the emotions I feel when my hands are reeled around your waist, embracing the fact that we’re both holding someone we never knew existed And I wish I had an answer for every question asked or how our story will last But I have one thing I know for a fact. Is that you… You were never a cliché.

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JOHN WOODEN HIGH SCHOOL CLASSIC: “What Horror to Awake at Night” by Lorine Niedecker RESPONSE: “Nothing to Me” by Zachary Perlmuter

To others, nothing is failure, nothing is the pure essence of laziness, the result of never trying your hardest, this angers the shit out of me! What of the kid that was put in a horrible place, torn between parents with no positivity to embrace, raised by negativity, death and neglect, moms getting hair extensions with the welfare check, where’s he learning respect, and why is love seldom seen, marijuana women and graffiti fill this teens dreams, he says he feels nothing, but an urge to cause mischief, covers up his pain with 40 ounces and paint missions, the only people he trusts are the ones in his crew, he doesn’t believe in god because of what he’s been through, women to him are nothing but a bunch of snakes, why be real in a world full of fakes, his hand shakes when he’s catching his tags, walking around south central with paint covered hands, barbed wire is like a goal he must complete, graffiti is a sport and he was born to compete! his mom asks, "why do you do this shit, it means nothing, you'll just be another worthless vandal on the wall that gets covered up and never seen again, do you do it for fame, it makes you no money, what’s going on in your fucked up brain!, honey"

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he leaves the room with tears behind his eyes trying to force them out of their sockets but he holds them back, he leaves at three in the morning dreaming of painting on train tracks with flat blacks and shades of green, coming up with styles no man's ever seen, his pops says, " instead of doing a throw-up why don’t you grow up, I got you two job interviews and you didn’t even show up, you make me look bad in more ways than one, the truth is I’m ashamed to call you my son" so now the overwhelming feelings of loneliness and shame takes over his brain pushing through the cocaine filters blocking natural endorphins preventing him from experiencing the slightest shred of happiness, so that night, he climbs the billboard, writes his final words, and jumps, for the seven seconds he was falling he had finally felt at peace, "another deceased vandal" is what the media said, the news headline, "aren’t you glad another worthless criminal is dead?" his mom crying hysterically at the funeral grabs her sons lifeless body and screams, "please, oh god please, say something to me, say something to me!" and those final words were his response, "what’s something to you, is nothing to me."

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WILLIAM WORKMAN HIGH SCHOOL CLASSIC: “Ellen West” by Frank Bidart RESPONSE: “Untitled” by Victoria Silva

When a girl reaches a certain age and her body is ready to bear life, Her egg sits on the walls of her uterus, waiting. When they fail to be fertilized, the walls are shed. Resulting in a period (The end of a sentence.) I was 10 years old when I received my gift. My mother told me I was a woman, I cried. Not because I understood what “being a woman” meant, But because of the broken building in my panties. I never asked to become a woman in the midst of playground fights and crushes on the boy with long hair. But demolition never waits for anybody The first time I felt the blood drain from my body and my skin pale was in the sixth grade. The man slowed his car down and watched me like I was to be devoured. His scavenger eyes pierced me I ran fast enough to be safe But not fast enough to forget the feeling of the blood leaving my face and my heart beating, beating faster than I could breathe beating faster than my feet hit the pavement beating harder than I jumped into my mother’s arms.

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Beating stronger than I could ever be Awkward, pubescent, pre teenage me bought all the magazines That had “being a woman” all figured out. They said things like “What is he really saying?” “99 outfits for your dream date!” “101 ways to please your man!” They sold the fairy tale pristine dream and I ate it. They said it’s better to feel wanted than alive. I don’t remember the last I felt alive because while the man in the white coat hears my description he’s filling out my prescription What he doesn’t realize is that I’m already medicated I’m drunk off the adoration and admiration I receive the boy with long hair looks at me now. Their stares and expectations have tenderized, beat and stripped me of my humanity because who needs that when they’re looking right at me? I want to be on display for all of my admirers, Served up, Rotisserie style.

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LACES CLASSIC: “The Geranium” by Theodore Roethke RESPONSE: “Peony” by Andrea Ortiz

Daisy chains are fitting crowns for you, but perhaps replace the daisy with rose, thorns encircling your cranium, messiah, death caught up to you, but it fell, and lay sprawled on the ground at your feet You sprouted without recognition, days went by, no one saw you in your corner where two walls and the cement of the ground met at a why, your shadow a carbon copy twin, then this boy came. Kissed his rosary, held it against his sternum in the dark, found you, plucked you, twirled you rotary, this is what it feels like not to be embedded, did you think the air was empty? Did you think the air was empty, because it was already engorged with the symphonies escaping from your veins, your vines grew higher every time it rained but each time more and more entwined with his rusty bars of arms Your scars were calm but not the underneath, his spit was pesticide Insecticide, infest inside your bones He cremated you into something less than grime, you plucked, you ripped each petal off your scalp, asked yourself, does he love me Does he love, does he love me, no boy is worth crying over the way God cries for you after a dry spell,

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so much that your roots are wrenched up out of the sparce space they have, They say Beethoven and Elvis and Billie Holiday make plants reach as far as they can into the sky, but bad music makes them wither, tell me was he honey swinging saxophone or was he just background music Space filler, pillar built like tree trunk, spiral your empty around him, hug him with what you didn’t have, Everyone has flowers growing inside their ribcages but he hosed yours down, your lungs became sacs of water too heavy because of that boy, your chlorophyll filled him, left your lumen empty, you thought love was the blood you drained yourself of in order to make room for him, but know, Know this, please tell me you know this, please, tell me you know that your spores are seedlings made of black gold, tell me, tell me you know that shears are not for your neck and that sabres are not for your wrists, tell me that you know this, please, tell me, tell me you know that your roots are strong enough to snap any asphalt, please tell me you know this, please know this. Know this, know this, know.

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ELAPAA CLASSIC: “The Great Secret” by Hafiz RESPONSE: “Minute to God” by Brian Martinez

WINNER OF THE SHORTY CATEGORY

Father we are in need of a conversation I did some heavy thinking ran into some complications I heard a poem speak to me He acted like a friend trying to get me to belive there is no such thing as sin Father Please forgive me I feel that I have lost my faith The nights are getting darker and its getting hard to concentrate I've asked myself the questions I isolate the shadows I'm supposed to be in heaven but its dealing like a battle Father Is the answer in the wine that you sip I've been asking questions constantly just trying to repent Can we talk about tomorrow cause today isn't shit I apologize for all the wasted time that I've spent Father I gotta thank you for the strength of my pen Because without a blessing I don’t know where I would have been Father I really do not know where I am If I died tomorrow could you tell me where I would stand Ohhh father help me a little I only wrote you this riddle as an apology and I’m sorry for the things I have done And he responded to me

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Son There is no man on this earth who needs a pardon from me For there really is no such thing No such thing As sin.

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MIRA COSTA HIGH SCHOOL “26 Seconds” by Miriam Sachs

In America, every 26 seconds a student drops out of high school. At my school, school is your life or you’re screwed because colleges look at your GPA. That’s why you need straight A’s. A four point oh is too low, Do you know just an average degree won’t get you a job that pays? SATs, ACTs, CAHSEEs and druggies; my campus, a discombobulated destruction of brilliant minds slammed into ones and zeros; my transcript, a spoonful of alphabet soup, and we are heroes, but It’s been 26 seconds. Somebody gives up. Excel excel excel, or go to hell. You’re brain, they say, is a rocket that won’t launch without the base of passing grades. And I know. I know. But sometimes the days drag me down, the very ground that I walk on is a laundry list of historical towns and abstract nouns. Memorize facts, names, dates, lines, the breeding patterns of the mediterranean fruit fly. 26 seconds have gone by, somebody drops out. Why? Don’t forget to take APs cuz that’s what colleges want to see.

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Who knows if it’s the right thing for me. My life is not a spelling bee. I can’t tell you what’s inside of me with biology and matrices. But still these courses keep me afloat like a life vest stuffed with Charles Dickens quotes and lecture notes, the mess of missing pencil lead. And yes, if school was my only breath, I’d be dead. But instead, I can also sit on the sand, watch the waves roll by, look for love in two blue eyes and try to manage my time. 26 seconds have gone by. So yeah, sometimes I’m stuck at my desk grappling with graph paper and my one hundred dollar TI-83 calculator, feeling like a slave to this infatuation with education. But I’m building a foundation so it won’t collapse into my own evaporation. I owe this to myself, and when homework is finished and folded in my backpack, when I’m done suppressing a Work Overload Triggered Heart Attack, I unfurl, wade into the rest of the wandering world, with four years of high school behind me. No matter how shattered the jewel can be. 26 seconds, you see? Someone’s out. But not me.

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YOUTH OPPORTUNITIES HIGH SCHOOL and ELAPAA “Stand Clear” by Walter Finnie, Brian Martinez, and Kyland Turner

DROP IN PROJECT WINNING POEM

Stand clear. The doors are closing! W: I ride this blue line every Saturday Sort of a blue mind that won't go away Last week I got jumped This week I'm not afraid W: Instead I patiently wait to take the ride of my life My weekly routine But now my train has arrived Stand clear: the doors are closing. B: Like options The reason I ride this bus Every morning is a must B: I’m tired and I’m hungry wish that I could grab some lunch I’m on a mission for a kitchen and my vision is rich I gotta do it for my mother I’m no longer a kid B: So for tonight I’m riding busses that like... Stand clear. The doors are closing. K: I’ve been waiting for this bus for 30 minutes Practice starts at 2; I fell asleep at 2, K: It's a 2 hour bus ride I’m hoping the driver will let me slide Like skates on ice K: Maybe if I ask nice

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Like driver, my ambition is your job title And in my backpack under my bible is the law So I know my rights He doesn’t want to hear no excuses Stand clear. The doors are closing. W: This commute is my life Fast with brief stops W: In the belly of the beast, I’m just trying to make it out Skin made of organized gangs Including the cops W: I refuse to rot in this cesspool. B: I gave ’em one 1.25 when it cost 1.50 Now the bus broke down I’m in the middle of downtown B: With an empty bus pass and a smile Let’s hope they let me in for free B: I got to be at practice in a while Stand clear the doors are closing K: Now I’m looking for a seat I go to the back cause that’s my habitat It’s where I feel most comfortable K: Don’t ask me to sit in the front I feel like I'm being watched Asking what drugs I got How many pills I popped To stay focus K: Cause getting to poetry rehearsal Is my only way out. Stand clear. The doors are closing. W: I just passed Skid Row And all I see is that 4 year old Who clinched my mama’s hand That rides this same dam train W: Seems like a shame but it isn’t Cause I’m on my way to practice B: I was blessed with a rush in my bloodline So quitting is a joke not an answer B: and this bus line represents My drive to keep going This city is beautiful but we have to keep going I love the people here but we have to keep going

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K: Like the lungs of a rehabilitated smoker Graduation is getting closer K: I’m to anxious to sit down 7th and Hoover is the next stop I requested with every ounce of energy I got I gotta get it K: For all the pills I popped I gotta get it K: For my brother getting robbed I can’t go back K: But now the cops are getting on It’s time for me to get off Stand clear. The doors are opening. W: My past days were bad days And doors were closing Nobody noticed but me W: So I had to make a change Label myself a poet Less nights are spent hungry For college I got a few options All black universities Less diversity Doors are now open W: Because I was preserving B: For a kid like me It was not likely Now schools write me B: Letters of Congratulations. You No longer have to live in the projects The ghetto The slum Whatever you want to call it B: Congratulations The pen in your ear? A weapon. B: your journal? A gold mine. B: Keep driving until the night falls Just don't fall asleep on the gold line. B: Stand clear Away from the negativity!

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K: Stand up Don't fear the peer pressure! W: Stand tall Be the building your ego jumps off of! We can’t give up saying, “What’s the point of tomorrow?” If we will never see our sunshine. Don’t get us wrong, We love where we're from But we cannot see our sons die. Stand clear. The doors are open.