Don’t Let me Know
Don’t tell me I’m the shit,
I know it.
I really don’t need anyones help
when it comes to stroking my own ego
like the rappers in their songs claiming
every woman within the next 47.3 miles
wants to stroke their, you know.

Don’t tell me I can string together verse or prose
like Tupac and Maya Angelou,
Langston Hughes and that
fantastic fanatic of revolution, Mr. Fiasco.
Oh no,
don’t worry I already know.

Don’t tell me I can touch the sky wherever I go
like Kanye I can spread my wings high
and kiss spears of lightning
as they come thundering down, down
to charge the earth below
with my sky-high potential energy,
potentially exploding in an kinetic  outburst
of outrageous electric excellence.
I know.

Don’t tell me I’m the shit
when I haven’t even been ingested,
digested and absorbed into the consciousness
of the world, because my ego will swell on its own.
So give me the hate and critique
and help me grow
let me earn the praise
before its bestowed.
Don’t let me know it, oh no.