Not An X'er

I was born in a hospital; my mother comforted my cries.

My father dreamed that I would be a lawyer; It was my dream too.

I grew up; lived in a house.

I skinned my knees, my eyes shed tears.

I was afraid of the dark; I thought monsters lived under my bed.

I believed in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Toothfairy.

My childhood was what you could call normal and my family was anything but dysfunctional.

At least it appeared that way.

We were perfect, or at least that’s how they wanted me to be.

I was on the A honor roll; I was every teachers pet.

High school gave me an ulcer; I forgot my locker combination.

My voice cracked and my face broke out.

College loomed in the future.

My mother wanted Harvard, so I wanted it too.

But I never marched down the aisle to pomp ‘n circumstance.

My cap never flew through the air; I never held a diploma in my hand.

The only thing I had to hold onto was a letter informing me that I was not Harvard material

Along with a palm full of cold steel

And a head full of shattered dreams.

They say that I was a typical “X-er”; they thought suicide was my way out.

No! I was drowning in the stereotype of a generation, struggling to escape and failed.