Twenty-two felt like faberge eggs,
3 inch corvette-red nails and gucci attire.
She makes it look like corner yard sales,
where the sweaters carry the stench of moth balls
the forecast is sunny, yet a heavy black rain
proves again that life is created on lying principles.

If I recall correctly, it really was quite simple,
if I discount the truth of tragedies, the pungent pain
and the ghost of Christmas past.

But I look at her, and my first reaction is
to steal her from her momma, bring her here
and let her taste the other side of a wooden spoon.

How can I do that? I mean, she is grown and I,
well, I am the example she despises on the inside,
sure, she loves me, because Auntie me always brings
a sweet surprise; she just wishes I was still cool
and able to hang like she does. Somewhere over the years,
in her eyes, I grew up and messed up; I broke a silent
code that left her to make up life daily; afraid and alone.

When I peer deeply, I still see this beautiful baby, in a dirty diaper, which never stayed fastened on the right side, giving us over exposed infant hips. A living babydoll, is what I use to call her.

But on the surface, I see a child forced into womanhood, branded a bud head, and from the tremors, I would guess
she's taken a fancy towards primo filled blunts.
I see her mothers errors and her fathers faults.
I see a woman who lives with real ticking,
until one day she either crosses over or
takes her own life.

What can I do? She's like my child, yet she's a mute
to common sense and I can't speak her language,
so I shall be pushed to share her mothers tears
if we get that call one day.