I wish my kids/
could write/
and speak/
about shit,/
and their bodies,/
drop the F-bomb/
into a mic;/
pour their hearts out/
like water on the fire/
of their pain,/
the way you,
brave young souls,
do,
shaking at the mic,
shaking your torments out,
so we,
your friends,
can hear,
digest,
honor,
and crush
your Angst
under our wandering feet.

I wish my kids
could write and
speak and
vent
about shit,
so they wouldn’t feel
like crap.