We are poems:
The dusty quill that rests
in the hungry jar of war paint
that lays in wait for its first slaughter;
The first heartbreak,
unforgivable,
holding on to the sensation
of each outburst of pain
that the lingering gnawing
of the doctor’s scalpel draws out;
The darkness of the ghetto,
a giant prison with no guards,
and no rules,
longing for the quiet touch
of a lover’s warm fingertips
as they glide across
the dirty paper,
stained with the tears
of untold stories
that are screaming angrily,
praying for relief,
catharsis:
the unwavering,
desperate
hope for the end.