First blog post: This Poem is like Me.

 

This poem is like me being at Rutgers in a building full of light.
And my family sitting at home, with no fucking lights.
No heat.
Nothing eat.
No cable, just fat back box tv.
Mama was working hard in them streets, I thank you for all those long nights you put on feet.
She was just trying get us something to eat.
It’s dark, lonely, and gloomy.
Nigga just trying make it out.
Nigga just tryna find the bread to turn on the lights. Feed the babies.
Get some pampers.
Take the kids out.
Nigga’s just tryna make it out.
I’m just trying make it out.
Taneeka I’m sorry.
This is all apart of the plan.
I’m just trying make it out.
I’m doing this for you.
Family struggles, school struggles, love struggles, heart struggles.
I’ve figure it out.
I’m a Robot. No human is able to do this.
I’m a Robot. No human is able to do this.
Deal with this much pain, heartache, and joy all at the same time.
This poem is like me.
This poem is like riding a Uber home from just s*****g with my best friend.
This poem is like the day I brought my pink coat.
This poem is like the day I found out mommy died.
This poem is like me.
This poem is like me feeling alone in a room full of people.
This poem is like me walking in Usquare.
This poem is my hurt right here.
This poem is like my silent tears.
This poem is like me.
This poem is like my hurt that you’ve have turned into a joke and turned into your own little lies, you witched girl.
This poem is like me loving me you still.
This poem is like me.
This poem is me.
This poem is like my skin.
The skin that i’ve just learned to love after years of self hatred.
This poem is like me.
This poem is like my hair, it’s tough, rough, and hard to break.
This poem is like me.
This poem is like me struggling to write a paper at 1:22am.
This poem is like my strength.
This poem is like the urban utopia society I hope for.
This poem is like me.
This poem is like late night talks, and great vibes.
This poem is my identity.
This poem is the identity I can barely define, but I know this it’s all me.
This poem is like the sun.
Pretty to look at, but to hot to touch.
This poem is like my faith.
This poem is like me not having enough words left to say.
This poem is like me.

By-Tymeera Freeman

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