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I listen to your
bottomless brown
eyes with no pupils
as you fight against
mental wards and
doctors’ scripts
to make you
silent. You have
suffered by the
hands that were
meant to help. Life
betrayed by a vengeful
father who’s harmed
your son and left
his scuff mark
on your face. All
the books on the
shelves, the ones
held, the ones checked
out and overdue,
the ones lost
can not describe
the story I’ve helped
you search for
inside a legal
binder, your
last chance told
in the shield of
paper to keep
you free.

NaPoWriMo #23

I’m writing a poem every day in April as part of NaPoWriMo’s celebration of National Poetry Month. We may be able to live without poetry, but who would want to?


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