I recall the moment in mind
when I realized
this religion of mine
wasn't mine,
but given to me
by my parents.
I recall
when I was five,
this heroin of mine -
that I call mother -
could've been another
and still would've been a hero
to that naive mind
of mine.
I recall a moment ago -
just before
writing this poem -
thinking it's funny
that I once thought
my mom
couldn't ever be wrong.
I recall a moment ago -
just before
writing this poem -
thinking it's hell to think
someone else might be going to hell
just because they weren't born
on the same side of the world I'm on.
And I recall now -
while writing this poem -
that it's not wrong
to still see my mom as my hero.
And it's not wrong to still believe my God is my God.
And there's nothing wrong
with the fact that I love chitlins.
Pig intestines to you, but
delicious to me.
Just how I was raised, ya see?
Just how I was raised to be.
And yea, I know,
just because the taste of something
is great to me
doesn't mean I've gotta force it down your throat.
Because - in the end -
I know my mom is just my mom,
and my God is just my God,
and this poem is just
a note.
Nevertheless I promise you -
if you'd just give 'em a try -
chitlins would be the greatest thing
you've ever placed
down
your
throat :-)
