breath from a choked void
come where a door reveals institution
rich of hatred blinding black
you are my sister
ideal beauty nothing can touch
battle against the status quo
when the protests die
don't forget you'll always be home.
YOU ARE READING
Salad Days
PoetrySad poems from sad and angry times. Written from a juvenile time (14 years old) to older. That's what you get when you leave a teen to ponder reality. A pen hits reality harder than high school survival. Original Art from Vivianne Rheaume
