Poverty

And it harm none Mama formed the mission, holding her Bible a glory soaked misfit.

Save It

Save the idle banter and the petty, senseless chatter for the next innocent victims of your self created disaster.

I'm on the outside bright color peacock spreading; I own my street, a path forced discreet by tainted company.

I thought I'd feel reprieve; some kind of soul relief to find out she died.

My lids are heavy. My brain churns thoughts. I run for home, spooning with dog. Exhaustion. I am aggressive and stalwart.

Closing the spaces I once shared. Closing the trust I once spared.

Wind comes, leaving half torn remnants of color, a pinwheel once moved by breath.

Fear is an illusion. I invite these intrusions to include truth, even if it hurts you.

What does my face look like when I cry? Un-pretty, swollen blood red eyes.

I wonder who you are anymore as your voice echoes dismissive screams disguised as suggestions.

What is it like to be granted a wish when your first kiss was laced with bitterness?