I Found My Way

On stormy, gloomy nights that I sobbed

under my bed sheets at the ages of twelve,

thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen because I felt unlovable.

I felt like my family ain’t care about me.

All they would do is say things that were mean, such as

“You’re retarded”

“There is something wrong with you”

“You will never amount to anything in life”

“Keep crying and watch I’ll beat yo ass”

“Boy, you on that white kid bullshit”

and it all hurt like those scrapes you got as a

kid after tumbling onto concrete.

I felt like I would never amount to anything

There was nothing that I was great at, anyway.

I prayed, and I prayed—

For someone or something to rescue me from the hell that I was living in.

Days I walked into the firepit called George Washington Carver Elementary—

I felt like I was going to melt at the amount of fights I got into.

Arguments I found myself in the center of.

I was the main subject to crude roasting sessions.

I was the main target everyone loved to fire at in the shooting range.

Now, I am able to say—

Those punishing times are now over with.

Once I turned sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen—

Writing became an outlet.

An outlet for me to shed all this distress

I let take me over and dilute my subconscious.

In 2014, one book was out.

It is now 2018.

I got eighty out, on my way to a hundred.

Every emotion that I have ever felt—

I put into my writing.

I had no reason to explain my art.

It speaks for itself.

I no longer need to hide underneath the sheets

And beat myself up for weeks.

I no longer allow anyone to tell me

What I am or who I will be.

I make that decision, not you.

At the end of the day,

I found my way.