Here’s a poem I wrote. I thought about my grandmother, and all the warnings she would give me as a teenager. Ofcourse these aren’t her exact words, but imagined what she would sound like if she were in a room with Langston Hughs or some other poet imbued in our culture:

Little boy what do you want? Your perception of life is an ambiiguity, a common trait among many, an antiquity really. Many has been vanquished, and many casted out alonside many,
Little boy what do you want? Fancy jewels, a nice ride so you’ll look cool? Okay then–allow the fads and today’s trends corrupt you until it’s imbrued, happy then, until your walking in my shoes.
Little boy what do you want? Warnings wasn’t enough? You tripped over your own two feet, what? Too big for your step? Walls caving in, feeling constrained , subjugated, the minds a terrible thing to waste.
Little boy what do you want? A I told you so?
The shoes hurt, no grips but you’ll get used to it though. Face this dream, unwanted as it seems, the demond’s stares you down a reem, love is non-distinct, future a shy from bleek, hope hangs onto invisibility.
Little boy, I told you so. There you go I said it.

Terry Little
DOC #562207