Tuesday, April 23, 2013



Pain drips from generation to generation
Like water in a leaky roof that no one
Can afford to fix in a house that no one
Is brave enough to leave. It might be damp
And moldy but it’s safer than the street; safer
Than the vulnerability of asking for help. It’s
Cold, but it’s familiar.

I want to remove every roof. I want to let the sun in
And dry up the puddles until there’s nothing left
But bright flowers peeking up between floor tiles
That were once drowning in perpetual grief.

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