Two poems in response to the prompts, “I write because” and “What are you made of.”
A simple hole in the street was the pinhole that allowed the discontentments with my new life to come in full force.
But here’s the thing: Kids are brought into this world by only one dad. That puts a certain crown on his head that never comes off… unless he removes it himself.
The summer of ’92 I was 13 years old, attending classes for teenagers at UC Berkeley. I received much more in my education of life on the streets of Berkeley than the classroom had to offer.
It might be that one day, when we’re older, this will make sense. But it might not.
Running in shadows sprinting in darkness lies, deceptions, half-truths, delusions. We hide our true selves away from ourselves. How can we expect anyone to find us?
Hope walks in darkened tunnels