I sit on my school desk often,
Trying to school myself with a moral composition so impeccable,
Even if past circumstances led me to lose my marbles,
I can’t imagine myself outside of a box I’m locked in without paper,
A pen to write letters to those I hold tight inside of my heart,
Even if all I have left is a single “bar,”
As my only weak signal of Love…
Is what I was told to do.
And I chose to be a writer.
That means I’m a Rider!
For truth regardless of what I am meant to lose.
Scripting lives out of hell?
Away from those 4locos,
Four walls and low moments I no longer dwell!
Is the mission at hand.
Whether or not friends and family choose to understand…
What else matters,
And if staying right here gives me that,
I forgive myself for every wrong I’ve committed.
Maybe I’ll love the person in the mirror,
Rather than imagining him bloodied in a ditch…