Let me just start out with an, "I'm sorry"

It would seem that the cards were stacked against you, since conception.

Instead of preschool and A B C's 

You were given a tv, a box of cheerios, and kool-aid 

"I'm sorry" but you've be delayed. 

You didn't start talking until you were three, 

I guess it wasn't a surprise,

Considering mama had boys in and out of our lives. 

Having us move complex to complex in neighborhoods, 

Where all you could hear were the birds, 

And not the kind that sing you to sleep. 

5-0's rolling up and down the street, with regular visits from CPS. 

What is there to talk about? 

You were the last. 

It seems the rest of us were out of the house or nearly grown. 

We had already been fighting our demons. 

From the outside looking in, 

Your just a really fucked statistic.  

Raised by a single mom, 3 other sisters, and 3 different dads. 

Which just spells - 

future codependent, domestic violence victim, and well-fare mom rolled into one.

If you're not pregnant by 16,

Then you're a winner. 

So the way I see it, 

The only way you have to go from being, SO LOW. 

Is UP. 

There once was a prophet that once said roses would grow from concrete. 

It looks like he was right.  

Rubie Simonsen