So That’s What It’s Like

By David Roth

© 26 October, 2011

Ain’t nothing new, ain’t no big thing,

slip on the ‘boks, my hoody and bling

pop tarts and milk

book bag and door,

maybe cut class, maybe hang at a store

Jarrod’s my Homey, ‘Quila’s my lady

gonna hang some, you know

nothing evil or shady

down to the Farm Store

iPad some tunes and just chill.

Should be in class, not here in the open

should be someplace else

someplace wishin and hopin

not hugging the floor, near the door

like a chore, while a wet patch spreads wide in my pants.

Come in wit a nine-mill,

fried on some head thrill,

angry and burnt out

pulling that piece out

shoulda gone to class.

I’m scared, I admit it!

that dude, he ain’t wit it,

don’t know what he’s seekin

I’m real, ain’t no peekin

my pants are still leakin.

Jarrod stood to confront him

fire one, punk, I ain’t jokin

got a hole where his head was.

‘Quila screamed, fire two,

that sweet face, cold and dead.

So that’s what it like

when the monster come out

wave a gun and start shouting

ain’t what livin’s about

It’s cold, I ain’t breathing, wet pants finally dry.