If I were a poem
I’d scream with bad words
Separating happiness and what I’m expected to do
Without even caring if I hurt her
If I were a poem
I’d turn into words
Made of ink and anger
Upon my creator
Like the lines of my diary
I want to be free
Choosing what to write
By making my own decisions
And stop writing what she said
If I were a poem
I will be white out
Deleting the future that my mom wrote for me
And rewriting my own
To do what I want
The dream that I dream of
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