Reid@YWP

How can i think,
when i sit in classrooms built by men
to teach us how to think like them,
and i try—
god, i try to conjugate freedom
in a language that was never mine,
in a room that doesn't feel like home,

He flew into my life on a Tuesday. 

All feathers, no job. 

Smelled like breadcrumbs and bad decisions. 

He coo’d at me like I was the last French fry in a drive-thru bag. 

And I believed him. 

i am a dreamer

with plans for something big

something great

i have a purpose

i strive to live for 

and passion 

I think I live for the silent and still —

The friends you made against your will.

The evening light,

The morning mist,

The impossible odds that you even exist.

They call it “the hood.”

We call it family.

They call it “ghetto.”

We call it culture.

It’s loud — but it’s home.

The ice cream truck rings at the same time every day.