Treasure Island

Is It Poetry

(1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)

.......................Thus Is Why My World Must Be


Hollow hand led shallow world your
grave you dug for me.
To keep in sleep.
When deep within your hole I live,
and breath.
Then die again once more each day, I am.

Must I see, the tearing yes, give in to pain,
that bore the best, too him, I am your grave,
lest I forget your life within my sun, it's blinded eye.

You must be his lifer and you her padded cell.
I see denial in us all, each living death can't sell.
If I see enough and how you made me feel,
each then and now your past you make again.

Now I can not touch your robe of black,
it's hem I always felt, such was it once my friend.
While beating others as a child, you knew I ran away.
Organizing pain of they whom were like I, now dead.
Even now in death, you know they have no name.

That white washed house in Florida knew but pain.



Arthur G. Dozier School for Boys

Submitted: Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Edited: Thursday, March 28, 2013

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