U.V.

When I was in third grade,
My teacher taught me all about ultraviolet light.
She taught me how it came from the sun,
And how it changed our DNA.
I asked Her what DNA was.

She said it was what made me who I was.

When I was in third grade,
I thought ultraviolet was pronounced
ULTRA VIOLENT
And when I was corrected I decided to keep pronouncing it this way,
Because how dare it charge into you, through you
 and butcher the essence of your being.

When I was in third grade I thought everything I was
And would ever be boiled down to a series of 64 codons.
Like all my personality,
And history were just roll ons,
Like my deodorant,
And that NOTHING
Defined a man besides his blood and the nucleotides therein.

In fourth grade I discovered the soul.

Not intrinsically different, from anyone else's
But written on loudly like chisel and hammer
With the brutal grammar
That you learn in the school of hard knocks
In the same English class that taught
the tabula rasa espoused by
Legendary John Locke.

Because you are more than sugar-backbones,
And nucleic acids,
You are the sum of your experiences,
Multiplied by the force of your impact,
And legacy everlasting.

You are your history pooled in the bottom of a boot,
Like sweat,
So weigh down on it,
And leave a big boot print.