For me;

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.

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?

What the hell 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.

EVERY DAY

I

CONTINUE

TO

PRAY