WRITE WEEK #2

[Certain]

I wore baggy jeans with the carpenter strap.
Harnessed my rap in the parking lot back with the hardest of acts.
I'd hardly react when dinner time came. I'd be late.
Never went starving, in fact, my mother saved me a plate.
She was hard on me back then, on my grades and my weight,
not quite calling me fat, but her thoughts were betrayed in her face.
My eyes rolled. She always worried 'bout college or money.
Mostly college and money. She'd research scholarships for me.
But I was 17. There were cigarettes and chronic to smoke.
Girls to poke. Mixtapes to burn. Parties to host.
I'd heartily coast through senior year. It was clear
my future was shifting gears, all while my eye's in the mirror.

I wear black slacks with the crease and a belt.
Decent in wealth but still scheming to ease up my bills.
Work 60 hours a week on the hill. A slave with no break.
But every few months, I head home. She still saves a whole plate.