Like a Real Man

I sometimes complain that people don't see

that my living is made by work, for real.

When I say "people" I mean me.

And I can't get past the guilt that I feel.

So today I did work that I understand. 

I scraped and I painted and I used tools;

got black grime and grease all over my hands.

Not all that weak shit I do for my school.

Soon I'll return to my school room and books

and live by talking about things I've read

and sort of feel like the works of all crooks,

"this aint really working," screams in my head

but I've had this moment to understand

that I truly can work, like a real man.

5/10/04