Smoke Signals
The second hand smoke
Of a relentless pursuit of peace.
Projects the burned out forest
Of my soul. My tired trembling hands
That I return to my pockets
Because of the blood stains under my
Finger nails. Never finding anything remotely
Close to home, I am a careless visitor in my own skin.Black sheep,the shame swept under the rug.the claustrophobic cataclysm that nobody talks about.The dirty secret hidden in a box lock away
In shadows.Shame I have always carried to the name that never was mine to begin with.
Systematically hell bent on finding something worth what fight I have left.This battered broken glass heart of mine, the glue oozing
From the cracks is the metaphor of my whole life.
~JAZ~
Copyright © Jessica Zorn | Year Posted 2019
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