Kiss of Death From the Hair Gun
it spits out the thinnest of dead creation
paining the one with its deadly stinging kiss
cry out, no not me
for i am but a colored crazy slave
with the letter of P. for poor
and the letter of B. for the unbelieved
but i must bear it
just like so many who have before me
they don't tell
because who would believe
Copyright © Verlecia Fields | Year Posted 2010
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment