Maybe I'll be a terrorist when I grow up,
that's something you'll never hear in America.
I'm having a beer with breakfast,
allegedly because I want to see if my brew is ready yet.
The taste does take me away from fighting through the night
wipe tears off the window sill, wipe fears off my heart.
Maybe I'll be a preacher when I grow up,
but then America might brand me a racist or a pedophile
I'm breaking a mirror at lunch,
supposedly because I believe bad luck can cancel out
Flowing blood does take me away from a heart beating in fright
Brush stains from the tiles, brush fire from my mind
Maybe I'll be a troubadour when I'm all grown,
but in America we call them the homeless and demented.
I'm killing a dove at dinner,
purportedly because peace lies on the opposite end of war
Broken wings do take me away from a mind lost in flight
Glide a knife across the tabletop, glide sorrow across my soul.
But maybe for a moment, I'll just stop and listen.
I'll open my eyes and see this moment for what it is.
Then I'll just be a poet, and through that I'll grow
Not an American, no need to call that place my home.
I'm writing some prose before bedtime,
simply because my words have crawled out from my fingertips
Violent verse doesn't necessarily imply a violent mind.
Speak truth in pretty lies, Speak in parts about the whole.
