The mattress lays,
Beside the blue ribbon
Old grey hair,
Is the new golden
Broken backs,
May feel like hopeless
But the navy anchor,
Speaks experience
A few pennies,
For the cracked and rusty bowl
Silver is the best tribute,
For the fallen
All was sacrificed,
For the new age
The blankets don’t respond,
Like always
As the sun peeps shadily,
Behind the curtains
Most days are spent,
On the wooden crooked chair
As it swings,
Praying for fast relief,
Every wrinkle,
Is a folder of broken dreams..
I started writing when I was eighteen years old and from that moment I can confidentiality say I have evolved in creativity despite being in an environment were the unique art is rarely appreciated I refuse to let that discourage me from persuing my dream of becoming a recognized poet