Trauma

 It is on my skin that colors come alive & my eyes 

threaten to be weary from pursuit of happiness. 

My country shifts away from me, in this moment 

these fraudsters want to steal a nation. The head 

on my neck tires from going to many places, seeking

to learn how society make vagabond. These words 

fall from my mouth becoming a river to drown my fears, 

becoming fire from the inside of my stomach. This poem 

is a letter to generations coming as soldiers that must 

stamp madness out from the head of our country. 

photo credit: goodtherapy.org

Chasing nothing

I was glad you would find me.

But you were lost, running chasing nothing!

Our streets still have no lights,

How much does it cost to buy salvation?

Come,

walk with me.

Hold my hands and suck breeze to ease

mind from this ‘shithole!’

Hole dug by actions, wrapped up in the

mystification of our discombobulation.

A future is something you create for yourself. Like a piece

of clay, molded into the want of a potter.

what becomes of your dreams, when your path is wrong?

That having no water or food means more than a smiling

face.

But you are far from where we stand.

Come to me.

to embrace your truth.

to know. that.

a forest always starts with a tree.

Picture by thedigestonline.com