Herbicide

They know - That I’m not.
I say “No!” – They don’t stop.
They take, take, take, take
What I’ve got.

They speak their mind, and when I cut.

They shift in – their apologies.
They quote some stuff from Socrates.
I scratch my head at what it means.
I can’t seem to escape my moralities.

They know – What I’m not.
I shake my head – They laugh a lot.
I push through like a Yaka from poppy seeds.
Because you can’t grow through slate like me.

And in the end.
I’ll rise to the occasion.
From this cradle – with its iron bars.
I’ll turn evergreen.