My intro
by Aria Fiore
Like I've said before
I am not Caucasian,
layin' in the tannin' bed
like some dried up old raisin.
I don't cake my face
with a mask of lined raccoon eyes
and glitter from my forehead
to my toenails
lyin' about my dress size.
I am 36'', 25'', 40''.
Wearin' Gucci shoes,
all hoity-toity,
Shit ain't my style.
I am tatted up
and lovin' how it gets
my professors all riled up.
I can quote Shakespeare
and tell you how carbon and oxygen bond;
Covalently,
to form carbon monoxide.
Yeah, that's me.
Glasses and an eyebrow ring.
You can find me drivin' around
rappin' about that ol' penetration thing.
But who cares about the me, myself, and I?
We were born just to die.
Short lives. Leaves not enough time.
Keeps us wondering about
the when, the where and the why.
Yeah, I got so many questions.
What I wanna know
is where did all the poets go?
All the artists, dreamers, and free thinkers?
I find them sometimes.
Dust covered.
Tarred and feathered.
Persecuted for their words and not actions.
But I guess as a writer
you are taken at your word
as soon as you stand up
and ask to be heard.
Aria Fiore is a poet from Marietta, Georgia.
by Aria Fiore
Like I've said before
I am not Caucasian,
layin' in the tannin' bed
like some dried up old raisin.
I don't cake my face
with a mask of lined raccoon eyes
and glitter from my forehead
to my toenails
lyin' about my dress size.
I am 36'', 25'', 40''.
Wearin' Gucci shoes,
all hoity-toity,
Shit ain't my style.
I am tatted up
and lovin' how it gets
my professors all riled up.
I can quote Shakespeare
and tell you how carbon and oxygen bond;
Covalently,
to form carbon monoxide.
Yeah, that's me.
Glasses and an eyebrow ring.
You can find me drivin' around
rappin' about that ol' penetration thing.
But who cares about the me, myself, and I?
We were born just to die.
Short lives. Leaves not enough time.
Keeps us wondering about
the when, the where and the why.
Yeah, I got so many questions.
What I wanna know
is where did all the poets go?
All the artists, dreamers, and free thinkers?
I find them sometimes.
Dust covered.
Tarred and feathered.
Persecuted for their words and not actions.
But I guess as a writer
you are taken at your word
as soon as you stand up
and ask to be heard.
Aria Fiore is a poet from Marietta, Georgia.