Drab, colorless city streets,
boarded-up houses, cracked sidewalks,
and dope dealers on every corner;
this is where all hope ends.
Beaten down by life, no jobs,
no money, no food; just poverty,
and the wailings of despair.
Like ghosts in the night
we hide in the shadows,
hoping not to be noticed;
for to be noticed here is dangerous.
But there, by the base of buildings;
abandoned factories and worn-out stores,
just there is a splash of yellow.
And another and another;
lining the old walls like guardians.
It feels so much lighter here,
seeing the daisies growing.
They are an inspiration to our artists.
If nature can survive, then so shall we.
Overnight it seems,
paint covers those old walls.
Graffiti artists spraying hope;
right here where the daisies flourish.
My name is Vicki Moore and I am 60 years old. I am an LCSW providing therapy and help to underserved populations. I started writing poetry in High School and drifted away from it as life interfered. After surviving brain surgery, I found myself taking more time for myself and getting back to poetry has brought me back to my former self.