By Allan Quintanilla
I am just a minor
I wonder if I could be a writer
I hear gunshots and screeching tires
I see people in the street I admire
I’m a dreamer, not a liar
I’m not the smartest, but I could be an artist
I am just a minor
I pretend to be an artist
I feel the streets’ darkness
I touch my chest, it’s heartless
I worry that the love for my mother is not the largest
I never cry, not even for my dearly departed
I’m not the smartest, but I could be an artist
I am just a minor
I understand I can be such an a-hole
My skin in blanco, but in my roots, soy Guatemalteco
I hope one day I will be set with my own home
Lots of land, a wife and a daughter, yo
I am a minor wondering if I could be a writer
I’m not the smartest, but I could be an artist
I am just a minor
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