Often the struggler has given up when he might have captured the victor’s cup Īnd he learned too late when the night came down, Often the goal is nearer than it seems to a faint and faltering man When care is pressing you down a bit – rest if you must, but don’t you quit.Īnd many a fellow turns about when he might have won had he stuck it out.ĭon’t give up though the pace seems slow – you may succeed with another blow. When the funds are low and the debts are high,Īnd you want to smile but you have to sigh, When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill, This is a poem for all the me’s that have ever existed.When things go wrong, as they sometimes will, This is a poem for the 6 year old boys and the men they have grown up into, may they be men worthy of forgiving. This is a poem for the 24 year old me that sometimes believes the same thing, but mostly knows better. This is a poem for the 6 year old me who thought he could make his enemies love him. This is a poem for the beans i now eat, how each bite sometimes has a taste of that tormenting song. This is a poem for the real enemy that lived in my head shouting “beans! beans! the musical fruit! the more you eat, the more you toot!” This is a poem for the 6 year old me so confused by random hate that he believed the real enemy was playing video games with him or cooking dinner for him. This is a poem for my brothers, who i would punch whenever they spoke to me in spanish. This is a poem for my confused parents who couldn’t understand why their oldest son only wanted to eat cheeseburgers and piles of ketchup. This is a poem for all of the spanish words i have forgotten since that afternoon, how they haunt my tongue like angry ghosts. ![]() This is a poem for the 6 year old me who resolved that moment to stop speaking spanish, stop eating beans, stop being mexican. ![]() This is a poem for the 6 year old boys who overheard my mom talking to me in spanish and serenaded us with “beans! beans! the musical fruit! the more you eat, the more you toot!” you are not your uncle, but didn’t you start at the same roots? Kenny is coming back at you with more craters for your face. you think about your uncle, who got jumped into a gang, how your grandma had to pay to get him out, how they had to move to a different city. you are on your back staring at the flowers budding on all of the trees. punches leave craters between people even when they miss. a circle of kids form around you and Kenny. you got your thumb tucked into your fist waiting to break. you don’t know how to make fists properly. you choose Kenny cause he looks tough, but not tough like The Rock. ![]() you are scared that if you do not fight, your friends will unmask you like a disgraced luchador. you are scared that you are Eric secretly wearing a mask. yo, josé, how come you haven’t fought anybody, yet? you scared or something? you look at the table where Eric plays pokemon and eats his pizza in silent shame. now, they are back and they want to see you fight. It is May and the trees are flowering and last week all of your boys’ budding adolescence bloomed fists and suspensions. Spins, hand claps, fist pumps, shrugs, and finger wags. You say “I’m wide open.” In Lob City, high fivesĪre always ten feet tall. In Lob City, when someone asks “what’s up?” Office workers ask their bosses for a raiseĪnd earn it by winning a game of one on one To play a game of one on one with gravity.Įveryone loves higher education in Lob Cityĭribbling brown bag lunches and basketballs.Ĭelebrate success by chest bumping the nurse. Catch a lob, throw down, and hang on the rim
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