When I was from the ages between 14-18 I wrote poems that later turned into rhymes. Yes I was a rhymer almost a decade ago. I would write out my problems and realizations so I could properly diagnose them and solve them myself. I never got the highest grades in high school because I felt that homework was a waste of my time. I wasn’t a bad kid, I just didn’t want to do homework when I could be doing others things. Teachers grew irritated with me because I knew the material but just chose not to turn in the work. They thought I was rebellious and would turn into a trouble maker sooner or later. I focused my time on rhymes, poems, guitar, chess, basically anything to do with the mind. I grew up as the skinny kid and I realized that sports and weights weren’t going to be my focal point. So on rainy days in elementary school I would play chess against all my friends. I would rarely lose. The reason why I believe has to do with my dad. He taught me to play chess when I was about 5 years old. We would play every day and he would always win. He NEVER let me win not even once because I think he was teaching me that we learn more from losing. Eventually when I was around the age of 10, I beat him. To this day I consider him one of the best chess players I’ve ever played in my life. So because I had so many ideas in my mind, it was hard for me to focus on mundane memorization that was going to be used for a test that Friday that in a week would be forgotten. I felt that most of the information I learned in high school was useless to me. I was a dreamer and still am that same person today. I haven’t written a rhyme in about 8 years. Last night I decided for old times sake to write something up. Being that the last time I wrote was at the age of 18, I decided to write 18 lines.
Maybe I’ll write more again in the future from time to time.
Giving homework to a dreamer was a poacher with a clever/
Encroaching his demeanor attempting to leave him hopeless to go deeper/
the dreamer knows that he won’t be steered/
and this is why his teacher foes openly sneered/
He found a truth early that people loathe to hear/
that the American dream was just smoke and mirrors/
He knew 3 things, he was rogue and weird/
and that without his brush he was a boatless pier/
Without his brush his ocean adheres/
and even the air bubbles turn to frozen spheres/
Those who once poked now try and cope with their hopeless careers/
as he hands them an ore so they can row through their tears/
To him, their 9 to 5 is nothing more than a road with no veers/
a broken promise passed down by the rows of the steers/
He’s growing through the years as they slowly disappear/
they’re still looking for happiness while he knows that it’s here/
Every moment is clear once you’ve eroded the fear/
he’s me. I’m Van Gogh, they’re my ear/
thank you for reading. Dream on.