Back 2 School

i handed my grandpa

a copy

of my second book.


and he commented:


why not six?


i look at myself
and see
an overcomer.


an overachiever.


but my family
still doesn’t see me
for me.


they don’t see
the change,


with the old script
in their mind.


how much more
growing up
do i have to do


in order for you
to see me
as a success story?


look at
what i’ve done.


the challenges
i overcame
to get myself here.


and still—


it seems like
it isn’t enough.


—


i realized
i needed
the dropout identity


for a while.


it gave the pen
something to bite into.


gave the fire
somewhere to go.


gave me proof
that i could walk away
from a script


and still survive
without one.


but now—


that story
doesn’t serve me
the same way.


not as an identity.


not as armour.


not as something
i need to keep defending.


i see it now
as an unfinished loop.


a chapter
still open.


and i don’t like
leaving chapters
unclosed.


—


i said
i’m going back to school.


and they said:


we always knew
you would listen to us.


listen?


us as in—


i listened to you?


nah.


this shit broke me
the first time.


i dropped out
and stayed writing.


i changed.


two books later,


i decided
it was time
to come back


and finish.


because i don’t leave
what still calls me
unanswered.


but this is forever
for me.


i didn’t listen
to anybody’s advice.


you can give advice.


you can point directions.


but you don’t get
to claim authorship


over somebody
who wrote himself back
to life.


take my pen.


here—


write it.


write the nights.


write the fear.


write the doubt.


write the feeling
of betting on yourself


when the odds
laugh at you.


here’s the story.


here’s the pressure.


here’s the silence.


here’s my shoes—


go walk in them.


let’s see
how far you get.


because this life?


i didn’t inherit it.


i wrote it.


my authorship
is in my right hand


with a pen


guiding the lines

until the chapter

closes.


— Mr. Mak


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