"You're smoking again" a little voice spoke out,
Curious and a bit afraid.
"It might help me sleep" I mumble,
Finally lighting the joint in my hand.
"No one sees you as cool" an older, but still as frightened voice sneers.
"I wasn't cool to begin with" I snap.
"I thought we were better than that," said the little voice, ignorant of what we learn.
"I thought we said we'd never touch the stuff," scoffed the older voice.
And I thought I would grow up!
And I thought I would become someone!
And I thought things would get better,
But no matter how hard Maria tried,
Has Esperanza ever been enough?
"Are you proud of me?" I ask.
The little voice and the older voice stay silent,
And I'm alone,
Sitting in smoke.
YOU ARE READING
Poems That I Form
PoetryI write poems that are me, Or rather what is in my head. It may be prose, Ponders, Sadness and grief; But who expected happy poetry anyways? If you wish not to see a crying girl, Then you're reading the wrong book. If you wish not to see the terror...
