poetry allows me to purge and process. its how I breathe.
Within my innermost bones is a warrior,Fighter blood runs through me like paint being spread over canvas,I let the tears baptise me, drape me and form a waterfall for a
I am neither happy,Nor sad,Tears of gold are not pouring on my shea butter skin,They do not sing in delight of the sun,Though there is a boost in my system
my home,is a place for my thoughts, my aches, and my limp body,a place that is safe where I can be the most exposed,a room containing pandoras box suffocating the