This is the land I come from
the land of
broken tar,
cracks in the sidewalk.
The place where roaches are squatters surviving a desperate home filled with spackled dreams.
She erased the young lovers from the mural on the wall
leaving just an empty tree
never to be climbed again
an artist whitewashing her future.
The land of white knuckles and fight clubs; of white men with dangerous pasts and drunken futures all too close and personal.
A city of tears and required loyalty to false gods.
Desperation
paints the streets
with dreams of escape,
of knowledge beyond
the corners and the cracks
I watch from my second-floor window, the souls that stroll past the burnt out warehouse across the street mirroring their young and angry lives.
Me. Hiding.
Afraid to see myself as the same hollowed out wasteland whose heart smells of burnt wood and mildew.
I hold my innocence and integrity steadfastly close shutting out
the pain of
dying dreams,
lost expectations.
Laughing at my intimate lonely world filled with fantasies so not to cry.
I
Will
Free Myself…
Patch the wounds
Fill the cracks
Plant the seeds that will sprout from new and fertile earth
A tree
growing
never to be hollowed out,
rooted in acceptance.
I will climb
Out of the fear
Into the future
FREE
Namastè
©NicholeDonjè
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