Poetry is the comma between our glances.
I don't know, where is my lens?
No matter, I can feel your looks...
This hot pressure, labels pressed to my naked truth.
Want of clothes I would choose over this societal fire,
cultural fury, self obsession.
Hey Gen X, let's eat some more flesh, clothe ourselves in torture.
Let's put it in a pretty little box so our kids can draw on it.
Everyone loves crayons!
Reboot our lives to ignore the pain...
commentary not living
consuming not feeling
holding not loving
helping not really helping
Who are you to own this dirt?
You are the one whose bones are as white as my fury.
My children won't fear you, we won't fight you.
We will lift you from the slaughterhouse as it burns.
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