When I was in third grade, my peers told me
how I could never be The President,
even if I were not so sensitive,
not so serious as a child, their tone,
I learned that I was different, not them,
was otherwise than an American,
a native born resident, citizen,
subject to the British Crown, at the time,
if, as a child, I were told I could be
nobody but who I am, important,
those words could check the imbalance, the tone,
however true, however factual,
insolent, entitled, privileged children
reminiscent of their divorced parents,
dared to prove their worth of greater value,
generous in their self-approbation,
residents from other countries must prove
additional merit to justify,
deemed sufficient, their cultural consent,
even just to reside alongside them,
my peers were jealous idiots, common,
yet, ignorant how to exploit others,
perfect mirrors of their parents, broken,
each shattered shard, an image of sorrow,
each sliver, a child neglected, in pain,
remembering my childhood as I do,
still, I must spit out the venom of bites,
the poisonous beliefs of hateful minds,
only I must extricate my own thoughts,
lingering, hidden, deep inside my brain,
despite my desire to crush bigotry,
my discrimination against myself,
even now, began as a child with peers.
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