Don't slow down
there is nothing to see here
stale years are waiting to be released
locked behind curled bars
she could fill up wells with her clear ink
he is a clenched fist
that she has been trying to hold hands with
sometimes you invite the hurt in
and hope it doesn't stay long
but it became home
pieces of her poem
have been shoved into jeans pockets
next to blunt wraps and condoms
dragging her dreams along
crack ridden streets
then sneaking in to morning.
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