To the craggy soul singing wreck,
the one who waits on the edge of wisdom,
Grafting some meaning
I was once asked what I would love most about my life, if I were to die.
Would it be the people
I hear walking down Neasden streets on a Sunday morning with my baby cousin in hand
You know what I’ve always wondered.
Who came up with the idea of tree’s
I’ve been shipped and moved around, flown and broken down.
3 continents have their mark in me,
Bruschetta at 1am-
Can never be right, right?
It’s not the taste, the tomatoes ripe.
But as I
It’s the way her nose crinkles ever so slightly when she smiles
It’s the way I smell her walk by to
I used to have a toy.
A yellow high rise jungle of sliding marbles
as they fell through holes
I come from a town
Where people look brown
And act black.
And that’s a fact
I’ve got a shipwrecked heart,
A pirouetting ravine.
Superfluous emotional morphine running up my