Stereo-Type

Genre-Bender, a true game changer

With touches of spice and pinches of seasoning,

Developed in a person hiding in danger

To create a new genre with no reasoning.

Why must a sound hit every ear the same?

To make one hear the normal created.

She held back an identity not easily tamed

To function in a world not so shaded.

As her sound waves exited the stereo,

I appreciated her genre,

The parts that made her sound different.

and the notes she hit that reminded me

Of my mamma.

When the song ended, I realized

her purpose and my stereo-type.

Her antennas told a story of personal demise

Yet her sound was so ripe.

I cannot listen to just one song of hers

Because it reveals a life quite mixed

And I cannot open just a few doors

As her genre enters a heart now fixed.

Hi I Am…

I am from strangers overcrowding

a small military room, from Top Ramen

noodles and Welch’s jelly. I am

From constant breezes shaping

younger generations. I am from Evergreen

trees envy for green and power,

the thick shells of grown gooey ducks.

I am from fresh French Dip dinners  

on Thursday night and an entanglement

of thick hair. From Cody, Eva, and Heather

posing as clowns, lions, and monkeys

for Halloween, I am from the crazy

on my Dad’s side working in my favor

and the dangerous and creative on my Mom’s

side providing a vibrant life. From the

anything is possible and the express yourself

no matter what. I am from a home that spent

Sunday mornings eating wings

instead of growing them, watching the Hawks

felt more natural than the possibility of

a higher power; the power I felt I needed

came from myself. I am from Newport News,

Virginia, From the blue sky that made up

my great great Grandpa’s German eyes.

From the busted lip of my sister when

I realized my golf swing was unpredictable,

the gash on my brother’s hand when I realized

I’m not cut out to be a ninja and from

when my sister, Sporty Spice, I mean Heather tried

to become a Spice Girl. I am random pictures

thrown in a very valuable cardboard

box. I am from the black ink that bleed out

of my Dad’s unreliable pen and the worn down

shoes passed down that did not have souls,

even though we did.