She told me that she wrote a poem about me
And because we were both in high school at the time, I mistook that as a compliment
I hadn’t realized yet, I hadn’t learned the lesson yet
That people like her; People like me; The like-minded people we were back then
We did not write poems about things that we loved; Things that we cherished; Things that we wanted to remain exactly as they were
The people and places that raised us accidentally, unintentionally instilled within us a great desire to drastically change the world
So much so that our view of poetry back then was that it must be a tool for fixing a broken world
And every poem had to be a socio-economic magnum opus that empowered the weak to speak truth to power
Otherwise, you’re just wasting everyone’s time
But if you place such a rigid view on your writing then eventually it infects your speech
Such that you no longer talk about anything or anyone unless that thing or that one needs to be better
Which was all the more tragic because we both turned to poetry in order break the rigid conformity forced on us
The compulsory education we shared required from us a great deal of twisting and contorting into suffocating molds
With her’s being even more restrictive than mine, though that subject matter could be a whole other poem unto itself
Actually that could probably be a whole series of poems unto itself
Actually that could probably be a whole book unto itself
Actually that could probbaly be a whole field of academic research unto itself
Actually that could probably be a four-wave social liberation movement unto itself
But I digress, we were, nonetheless, both of us, berated, bullied, and beaten into our respective molds
Every time I slipped out of mine, I took a deep breathe to smell the fresh air
But when I exhaled to speak, the fresh air was tainted by the burning hatred I buried under a repeatedly bitten tongue
And that fiery breath never actually licked at the feet of the people who were strangling me
I hadn’t realized yet, I hadn’t learned the lesson yet
That I was not enlightening the people around me
I was just setting alight the shelter that other trapped souls were desperate to share with me
So given the like-mindedness that drew us both to poetry in the first place
‘Twas indeed naive to think that her brief dalliance with freedom
Would see her speak soft and demure on a topic that brought her relief, comfort, or joy
She read a brief poem about me that abruptly ended with me getting hit by a bus
And then the bus backs up; And then the bus hits me again
She told me that she wrote a poem about me and I was young and foolish enough to be flattered
I hadn’t realized yet; I hadn’t learned the lesson yet
About the true impact that I was having on the world
Or more importantly, the people who were trying to share their lives with mine
But for me to learn, for me to teach myself, did not require berating, bullying, or beating
It required of me looking inward, admitting, accessing, and applying my own empathy
As well as a modest investment in public transportation