You speak and speak of nothing much, although you have nothing better to do.
I ask you why you speak this way, you mutter with quiet pride.
 
For what you say is nothing much, is something very much to me.
As you stare at my worn face, I am a man of different race,
But the only real difference between you and me,
Is the very much that you can’t see.
That is everything to me.
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This is the first poem I ever wrote, strangely enough, I was in sixth grade. My teacher Mrs. Andrews told us to write a poem, 30 minutes later that is what I had come up with. It is hard to say if I was aware of what I was writing, aware of such social implications, or If I just liked it because it rhymed. 
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