Step Three: Pull Out An Old Poem

My rage is unyielding.

This year has been rough to say the least. I live in a slow-grow yet fast-paced town in South Louisiana. I’m considered a disappointment to a lot of people who love me. My heart lies with the feminists, the liberals, the people my friends and family hate.

It’s not like this is some sad attempt to be an angsty teen. I tackled that a long time ago. People don’t seem to get that I can have my own opinion.

A few months ago, I wrote the rage filled poem. Tonight, while trying to pull some brain power for a story I’m working on, I remembered it. The poem was tucked away far down the Tumblr road.

Here’s the story of a pissed hooligan who’s taking back her goddamn voice.

“I am not you.

This concept is not new.

Wait, hear me out through and through.

______________

I am not you.

I love boats.

You love planes.

Shall you break my confidence for your unrighteous gains?

______________

I am not you.

I’m light on my feet, learning about the world I see.

You are trying to save a world that was never truly free.

______________

I am not you.

I’ve got youth in my body and wear my heart on my sleeve.

You belittle those who are ready to leave.

______________

I am not you.

My fellow youth try to break barriers and open the door.

Your distaste for the generation has left us nothing but scorn.

______________

I am not you.

The world I see, potential around every corner,

Will leave the scared generation brought to a coroner.

______________

I am not you.

You are not me.

This, America, is why we can never be “we”. “

I’ll leave this hear for you to mull over. I refuse to back down. All of my life, I was taught to be the strong woman I am. Generation gaps and fear will not hold me back.

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