Every rose thorn
That pierces my clumsy stubby
fingers
Molds me into
a person that roams the streets of
Ayala
Every speech made
Brings me closer to what the factory
Produced:
Prim Proper Ego
Stepping Literature Minded
Bitches
English Masters
Math No-Brainers powder toting
Womyn.
Holding this thing
Called solder and this fragile wire
Lead
Gave the "produce"
A hard time and needs conditioning
There,
A hybrid was
Born and rejected. Confused and left
to rot.