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the pretense. Why must it be
expected—no, demanded—of
me
to surpass my ancestors’
achievements? Why
can’t I just be a regular
seventeen-year-old, trying to
make
sense of life? But my path
has been preordained,
without anyone even asking
me
what I want. Nobody seems
to care that with every push
to live up to their expectations,
my own dreams
vaporize.
Don’t Get Me Wrong
I do understand my parents wanting only
the best for me.
Am one hundred percent tuned to the concept
that life is a hell of a lot more enjoyable
fun with a fast-
flowing stream of money carrying you
along. I like driving a pricey car, wearing
clothes that feel
like they want to be next to my skin.
I love not having to be a living, breathing
stereotype because
of my color. Anytime I happen to think
