Truth be told

Sometimes I have no idea

Who I am

I could rub myself with gritty

Sandpaper

And grind, grind, grind

Away my skull

In the dim light of my garage

To reach a mind preoccupied with beauty

And aesthetics

And less with

The soft sliding noise

That sounds strangely like circles

As the paper goes round and round

Digging into me,

Into a dusty white yard of buried thoughts:

Thoughts of the girls I’ve cried over,

Thoughts that have kept me up at night,

Thoughts of the day I was selfish and worried about myself

When my mom had cancer,

Thoughts of the rage that I feel towards the ACT,

Thoughts of the anger I have towards the fact that my talents mean less than my grades,

Thoughts of the fact that my future depends on people judging me now,

Thoughts of the fact that they will judge me on the crap they had me memorize from textbooks

And not on my creativity,

Not the dance battles,

Not the raps I’ve written,

Not the things I’ve drawn,

Not the things painted in my head,

Not how I got the things out of my head and painted on boards,

Not how I finally learned to slide on a long-board,

Not how I think critically,

Not the times I said something nice,

Not the times I said something mean,

Not how I love,

Not the times I found God,

Not how I’m human;

And because grinding away my skull

And spilling my soul all over the floor

Like a glass of milk

Wouldn’t give them anything to judge me by

I feel like that would

Not tell me who I am

And probably ruin

A piece of sandpaper

That could probably be used

For something better