covered in the skin of mistakes born wrong.
She is backstriken spinal cord bent in weariness
from walking this Earth older than she.
Made to depend on the only soul not guaranteed to break her stride...
Herself!!!
But it was the harsh and frequent lashes of her stepfather's hand
that led her down this crippled and weary road.
She pushes cracked and battered toes across Columbus stolen,
formerly Native owned lands.
Journeying through life crossing roads paved
on top of the unmarked graves of former ancestral slaves.
Beaten and bruised feet from wood crafted footboards,
bathromm stall floors, and broken ally bottles
where she is made to earn a few dollars.
Left with no options and zero role models
she looks toward Dead Presidential faces to be her fore fathers.
Following their "In God We Trust" motto
till it speaks hymnals in her eardrums and pockets.
Penetrating the very depth of her sleep
while she clinches pillow covered sheets.
Jolted from her slumber by the electric convulsions
of her own muscle spasmed seizures.
Remembering the timelss mornings she has awakened
to a blood soaked Jersey fitted sheet purchased from IKEA,
Not knowing if it's her nose or her womb.
Made from cotton, crafted in a factory
where more workers lose jobs than dreams, fabricated
from 50 plus years of bloody harvesting fields.
And you can still hear in the distance in the shrieking sounds
of connected chains attached to whip inflicted mahogany bones,
dragging decrepit punished souls,
but she never feels Their sacredly concealed spirits
evaporating from the very sheets
on which she exchanges skin for meat
until she awakens into a pool of disappointment.
With each step and breath she regrets the life she leads.
Trying to carve her path through the stone and cement reality of life
but instead she creates a dysfunctional seed.
Posted on street corners where his congregation consists
of other euphoric minded souls.
Trapped in this state of nirvana, these future kings and queens
crowd the crack houses like fools to gold.
Caught in a vortex of volcanic reconstruction.
Where teenage women conceive children
because of un-parented decisions.
For she is only 13!!!
Descendant of the Royal Bloodlne where 13
was next in line to be crowned Queen.
Traveling through life lost, her cost paid to society with her payment
the sacrifice of her child to these unforgiving streets.
Until her number is tallied along with the warrior women
that came before her as it totals the inner cities status quo.
Her CD player worth more than her fractured self-concept,
crushed into hieroglyphic snapshots of struggle.
Her pain echoes a song like psalms,
playing on the soundtrack of her subconscious.
Her stomach, swollen into a cylinder filled,
adolescent mind, covered in the skin of mistakes born wrong.
Stretch marks resembling life's cold,
callus grip, tearing at her pregnant belly.
She's an empress turned prostituted drug fiend.
Descendant of the Royal Bloodline
where 13 was next in line to be crowned Queen.
Although she will never be...
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