Slam poetry

I was told I can be mad a GD.

And to me that’s odd.

That hasn’t even been a thought

and now something that is taught

is OK.

Who am I to be mad at-

no HOW could I be mad at

what I’ve questioned to even be a reality?

And mad for what, I don’t have it in me.

The blame if it is there isn’t even blame.

Anger isn’t in the equation

because it’s frustration.

Confusion and the delusion

of where do I place it?

I carry my frustration and order it neatly on the shelf with my name on it.

I’m looking for my name

to find my shelf

because why would I place any of that on anyone else’s shelf?

I didn’t even realize GD had a shelf

but I don’t see it and it doesn’t matter to me anyway.

I’m told because of Him I have the life I do,

and to that I account the great.

But the stuff that I hate,

no that is on me it’s like my bait.

Because who would I be to place it on GDs shelf?

Yeah I know it’s not health-e rase it.

The stuff on the shelf,

delete delete delete.

My shelf is clean,

I’m balancing my pile

as I walk for awhile

to find the bin.

Knowing the situation I’m in,

isn’t always because of me,

and to blame isn’t always what I need.

There’s no end where I found a shelf that is the right one to place life’s frustrations, but know this.

Every here and then, I miss seeing the shelf empty, and I do spring cleaning.

I’ve learned it’s freeing.

To understand when I’m hearing,

“you’re allowed to be mad at GD.”